Refined by Fire
by WillowDryad
Summary: Betrayed and torn away from home and family, Peter and Edmund have nothing to hold onto but their trust in Aslan. But has He abandoned His chosen ones? Golden Age. No slash. Thanks to narniagirl11 for the great cover art!
1. Lamentations 3:52 & 53

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER ONE: LAMENTATIONS 3:52-53

"Your Majesty! Your Majesty!"

At the panicked cry, Peter looked up from the freshly killed stag, his reddened hunting knife abruptly still. Their Terebinthian hosts, Lord Arren and his brother, Lord Darreth, had gone with Edmund, tracking another deer. Why had Arren returned alone?

"Over here!" Peter sprang to his feet, careless now of the bloodstains on his shirt and breeches. "What is it?"

The young nobleman, perhaps five or six years Peter's senior, rushed out of the trees, his bearded face red and gleaming with sweat. "My Lord," he panted. "My Lord, your royal brother, he's–"

"What happened?" Peter seized the man by his shoulders, shaking him. "What happened?"

"An old cistern." Arren bent over, hands on his thighs, still gasping. "Hasn't been used in years. He fell in and we fear he may be–"

Not waiting for more, Peter flung his hunting knife into the grass and sprinted into the forest. They had passed the old settlement when they saw the first sign of the deer early this morning. Peter could only imagine this cistern had been concealed in the vegetation that had grown up since it had been abandoned. _Please, Aslan, don't let him be hurt._

"Edmund!" Peter burst out of the trees and vaulted over a low stone wall, half crumbled and overgrown with ivy. "Edmund, hang on."

Darreth stood looking down into the deep hole, worry and helplessness etched on his face. "Hurry, Your Majesty. I fear he is badly hurt. He does not respond when I call to him."

"Yes, hurry," Arren said, still panting as he followed behind Peter. "I pray we are not too late."

Dreading what he would see, Peter leaned over the side of the cistern. Edmund lay down at the bottom of it, looking up at him, his dark eyes enormous with fear and a desperate warning. He wasn't hurt. He was bound and gagged.

Peter spun on Arren and Darreth, eyes blazing. "What are you–"

Rushing at him, the Terebinthian lords seized him and flung him into the hole with his brother. Peter landed hard and then scrambled to his feet. He stared up in disbelief, but he couldn't see the brothers anymore.

"Arren? Darreth! What game is this?"

They made him no answer, and he could hear them quarreling above him. He knelt at his brother's side, his hands trembling with fury as he unknotted the filthy rag that had been used to gag Edmund.

Edmund worked his jaw briefly and then licked his dry lips. "Peter. What are we–"

"Shh." Peter shook his head as he untied Edmund's hands. "Listen."

"You fool!" he heard Arren say. "He was supposed to already be dead."

"I– I couldn't." Darreth's voice was low and shaky, betraying his youth. He was no more than two years older than Edmund. "He's my friend. They're both our friends. I couldn't–"

"You should have told me you were a coward before we began," Arren hissed. "Now there is no turning back. Now I'll have to see to both of them myself."

Peter heard the rustle of grass as Arren stalked towards the pit again.

"Wait!"

There was more rustling, and then silence. Peter and Edmund looked at each other and then looked up again, waiting.

"Well?" Arren demanded finally.

"Don't kill them," Darreth pled. "They're Aslan's chosen Kings. If we spill their blood, a curse might come upon us."

"And if we don't, it definitely will. Do you think they will merely forgive this and say no harm done? Do you think they'll not have our heads for even the thought of this betrayal? You are a greater fool than I first imagined."

"But, Arren–"

"It's simple," Arren raged. "Either we kill them or they kill us. Which would you prefer?"

"What if–" Darreth's voice was hurried, unsteady. "What if we could be rid of them without having to stain our own hands?"

Peter and Edmund exchanged another glance.

"What if they were gone and could never return?" Darreth continued. "Would that not be as good as killing them? Could the rest of it not be accomplished?"

"How?" Arren demanded.

"Serkan." The younger Terebinthian paused, waiting for his brother's reaction, continuing only when Arren did not immediately tell him again that he was a fool. "I heard that he starts another pilgrimage today. I am certain he would be willing to take along two more."

There was another long silence.

"What if they tell Serkan who they are?" Arren asked finally, considering.

"Then he will sell them for the proverbial Kings' ransom, the Tisroc will make away with them and immediately take Narnia." Darreth sounded confident now. "They dare not speak."

"And if they escape from Serkan and return to Narnia?"

"No one ever escapes, Arren. You know that. Live or die, they will be gone and we will not have soiled our hands with them. And Narnia–"

"Narnia will be in turmoil." Arren chuckled. "An easy mark. And the Queens–"

The two Kings stared up at the circle of sky they could see above them, fury and terror in light and dark eyes. Susan and Lucy–

"May as well pine after a star," Darreth scoffed. "The Queen Susan will be the jewel of the Tisroc's harem. It's already been decided."

"There are two Queens, are there not? After all we have done and will do to help him to what he wants, surely the noble Tisroc will not insist on keeping all the treasures for himself."

"Faugh, the Queen Lucy is what? Twelve? Thirteen now?"

Arren laughed nastily. "Once she is mine, she will grow up quickly enough."

In a blind rage, Peter flung himself at the sheer side of the cistern, bloodying his palms as he slid helplessly down to the bottom again.

"Peter, no," Edmund urged, his voice low. "Let me up on your shoulders. Maybe I can jump from there."

Still trembling, Peter looked up to the top of the pit, eyes narrowed, calculating. "It's too high, Ed. You'll never–"

"I have to try. Come on. Before they come back."

Peter braced himself against the cistern wall and bent his knees. Edmund scrambled up onto his shoulders.

"Not high enough," Edmund said softly, not wanting to alert their captors. "Can you stand straight?"

Peter obliged, straightening his legs and sliding his back up the wall. "Now?"

"Not enough," Edmund said with a little huff of impatience.

"Stand on my hands."

"Peter, you can't–"

"Just do it, Ed. They'll be back for us any time now."

Peter put his already-scraped hands on his shoulders, palms up, and Edmund stood gingerly on them. At fifteen, his little brother was still all legs and coltishness and too thin if Susan was to be believed, but he was tall and, Peter realized, heavy enough. It was almost impossible to get any leverage at this angle. Steeling himself, Peter pressed upwards, straightening his arms as far as he could. Edmund scrabbled up the wall, stretching his fingertips towards the rim of the cistern.

"Almost," he whispered. "A little more, Pete. Come on."

Panting, Peter pushed himself onto his toes. He felt Edmund do the same, and his arms started to shake.

"Ed, hurry," he gasped. "I can't–"

Abruptly, Edmund's weight was gone. Peter dropped his trembling arms and looked up to see Edmund's boots vanish over the edge of the cistern.

Had he–

"And now you, High King, if you please."

Arren smiled down on him as he dropped a sturdy rope into the pit.

They had been too slow.

**Author's Note: Yes, it's me again. Despite my best intentions, it seems I have started another long and angsty tale about Peter and Edmund in trouble together. This, apparently, cannot be helped. I hope you'll let me know what you think of it and if I should go on with the story.**

– **WD**


	2. Psalm 119:53

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWO: PSALM 119:53

"Come up, My Lord, come up."

Peter only glared at the traitor Lord Arren.

"Surely, High King, you would not wish your Just King to go traveling without you." Arren frowned when Peter did not move. "Perhaps, King Edmund, you can persuade your royal brother."

Peter heard Edmund's sudden gasping hiss, but he made no other sound. No doubt the Terebinthians had prodded him with a dagger or twisted his arm behind his back, and stubborn Edmund had refused to be intimidated. Still, no use letting him be truly hurt. There was nothing to be gained from being left down in the bottom of a pit anyway.

Scraped hands stinging, Peter hauled himself to the top of the cistern. He glared at Arren and Darreth the moment he saw them. The younger of the brothers stood behind Edmund, holding him by one arm, a blade at his throat. Maybe Darreth didn't want to kill anyone, but that didn't mean he wouldn't if he were to be pressured too much.

"What now?" Peter asked warily. "I don't suppose there's any going back at this point."

"Not for any of us, My Lord," Arren said, his doleful tone not quite in accord with the smug look on his face. "Now, if Your High Majesty would be so kind as to seat yourself at the base of that tree, we will try to make this as painless as possible for everyone."

Peter set his jaw, prepared to be uncooperative, but Darreth pressed the dagger a little more firmly into Edmund's neck, staring pointedly at the oak Arren had indicated, and Peter dropped down beside it.

"Now, My Lord," Arren said, "your shirt."

"My–"

Edmund inhaled sharply at another bite from the dagger, and Peter was quick to comply. He tossed his shirt, already marked with a few drops of the stag's blood, at his captor's feet. Arren rummaged in the pouch he had brought with him and brought out another shirt, his own spare, and tossed it into Peter's lap.

"Put that on."

It was rather snug across Peter's broad shoulders, but he put it on without comment. Then, as he was ordered, he put his arms behind him and felt himself tied by his wrists, not too cruelly, to the tree trunk.

"And you, My Lord," Arren said to Edmund. "We must have yours as well."

At a nod from his older brother, Darreth released his captive and, without ceremony, Arren stripped Edmund's shirt off of him, leaving him glaring and pale there in the clearing. Darreth's spare shirt rather overwhelmed his slim frame, but at least he wouldn't have to go without.

"Now, Good My Lord, if you would."

Arren gestured towards another tree, this one a birch, and Edmund sat leaning against it. In another moment, he was tied as Peter had been. After that, the Terebinthian yanked a few strands of hair, not much, from each of their heads.

"Now, Darreth," Arren ordered, "go into the forest and bring back the stag our High King took this morning."

"The stag?"

"Yes, that great beast with antlers lying dead in the clearing. You'll know it when you see it."

Darreth looked unimpressed by his brother's sarcasm. "What are you going to do?"

"Just go get it. Then we can go see what interest Serkan has in our little proposition. Hurry."

Darreth disappeared into the trees and returned a moment later, dragging the carcase.

"What are you going to do?" he asked again when Arren drew his dagger.

"Never you mind. Just make sure our royal guests are secure where they are."

The older of the Terebinthians gave Peter a knowing grin and knelt by the stag. Then he took the Kings' shirts and spread them out over the carcase and then sprinkled the hair over them. Peter and Edmund glanced at each other.

"Peter?" Edmund said, dark brows drawn together, voice soft. "What's he–"

Both of the Kings gasped as Arren raised his dagger and plunged it through the shirts into the body of the stag. Over and over, he stabbed and cut and raked and kicked, soaking the fine linen in blood and gore, tearing with his hands as well as with the blade, ripping the material as if in a frenzy of madness, snapping the beast's fragile bones as he did, rolling the body over and over in the dirt and grass of the clearing as if he were fighting the poor, dead creature.

Peter and Edmund only watched wide-eyed until, panting, Arren stilled again, seeming satisfied with his efforts. After that he dumped out the contents of his brother's pouch and stuffed the ruined shirts into it. The he came to stand before Peter.

Without prologue, he seized the gold pendant Peter wore, and Peter's eyes flashed fire. The pendant was dear to him, just a small disc no bigger than a sixpence, with the Lion's head on one side and some ancient runes engraved on the other. As near as they could be translated, the runes said, "His and not my own." Edmund and Susan and Lucy had also each been given one not long after their coronation, a gift from the Prophet Centaur Stormseer who lived near Caldron Pool.

Arren sneered at the pendant and then wrenched it from Peter's neck, snapping the fine chain. Then he went to the other side of the oak and stripped the seal ring from Peter's finger, the one that marked him as High King. He did the same with Edmund's pendant and seal ring. Then, wearing both rings and with both pendants clutched in his fist, he thrust his hand into the stag's gaping side, sliming the bright gold with blood. Afterwards, he put all of his plunder into the pouch with the shirts.

"Now, noble Kings, one final thing and we will have done. Darreth, gather some wood."

Without protest, Darreth again disappeared into the forest. Arren meanwhile began dismembering the stag, mostly pulling it apart instead of dressing it neatly. He packed a portion of the meat into the pouches brought for the purpose, but most of it he left in fragments on the blood-pooled ground.

When Darreth returned with the dry wood, they stacked it where the carcase had been and then laid the torn remains of the stag on top. With the click of flint and steel, Arren started a fire. Eventually there was a billow of black smoke, and soon the pieces, flesh, bone, hide, hair and all, were burnt into ashes.

As the ashes began to cool, Peter and Edmund exchanged a grim glance. It all made sense. No one would ever think to look for them now.

**Author's Note: I realize these chapters are fairly short, but I hope to update frequently, not less than once a week. Thanks to all of you who reviewed the first chapter. Yes, this is a fairly loose take on the story of Joseph from Genesis as many of you have already noticed. I do hope to give it some unexpected twists and turns. Do let me know what you think.**

– **WD**


	3. Job 6:27

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THREE: JOB 6:27

"Sit down, Your Majesties, and take your ease."

At Arren's words, Edmund fell to his knees in the grass and then sat down. Peter dropped down beside him.

"All right, Ed?"

He didn't know how long they had been walking. At least three hours, judging by the sun. It hadn't been a hard pace, but he and Edmund were each tied at the ankles with a length of rope long enough to let them walk and short enough to hobble them if they tried to run. The endless succession of short, shuffling steps was tiring. Edmund looked exhausted, and one of the ropes was already rubbing a raw place on his ankle through his boot.

"All right?" Peter asked again, shifting the too-tight ropes at his wrists.

Edmund glanced over at where the Terebinthians were taking some provisions from their pouches and then he gave Peter a grim nod. "He's right, you know. We can't tell anyone who we are. Not this Serkan, whoever he is. And we'd better come up with something to call each other besides Peter and Edmund. Otherwise we'll end up sold to the Tisroc, and then we will decidedly not live forever."

"Serkan's a slave trader more than likely." Peter kept his voice low, too. "I think I've heard mention of him before. Clearly, our Terebinthian friends know him and a bit too well."

Edmund's eyes narrowed. "The trade has picked up since their father died. Perhaps Serkan pays something of his profits to the new Duke to guarantee he will turn a blind eye?"

That much made sense. Slavery was officially against the law in Terebinthia, and Duke Jarred had at least made reasonable attempts to stamp out the practice where he could. But since his death eight months ago, the trade in human misery seemed to have grown more widespread and more blatant. No one in Narnia had yet made the connection between that and Arren's assumption of his father's title.

Following the Narnian Kings' official presence at the old Duke's funeral, Peter and Edmund and the new Duke and his younger brother had struck up a friendship. All four were rather of an age and enjoyed hunting and riding and swordplay, and it had seemed to the Kings a pleasant and easy alliance with their neighbor to the east. Now it was obvious that this friendship was no more than pretense, an opportunity for the Terebinthians to insinuate themselves into the Kings' good graces and then, when time was ripe, take them unawares.

"So what are we going to tell this Serkan when we get there?" Edmund asked softly. "Who are we? Terebinthians?"

Peter darted another glance at their captors. "Good as any. Perren and Edrret?"

Edmund wrinkled his nose. "Is that the best you can do?"

Peter gave him a faint smile. "Buck up, Ed. They haven't gotten us to the docks yet. We may never have to use the names at all."

Something lit in Edmund's eyes, and he, too, glanced at the Terebinthians. "We're going to–"

He stopped, and Peter saw that Darreth was watching them. Edmund only gave the younger of the traitorous Lords a withering glare and then turned coldly away.

Darreth came over to them, going down on one knee to offer Edmund a wineskin. "It's from our own vineyards. The kind you favor."

"No, thank you . . . _friend_."

Darreth cringed a little at the venom in that last word, at the reproach in Edmund's dark eyes.

"It wasn't my idea," Darreth said, lowering his voice. "I knew nothing of it until a few days ago. Arren kept it all from me."

"And yet you do as he says," Peter observed. "You agreed to kill us."

Darreth looked away and then turned to him again, eyes pleading. "I saved your lives as best I knew how."

"And so we're sold into living death?" Peter smiled tightly. "Most kind of you."

"I'm– I'm sorry. Truly. But it's too late now to–"

"Help us," Edmund urged, voice low, bound hands lifted. "Just help us. You can–"

"Darreth?" Arren scowled at his brother. "What are you doing over there?"

"N-nothing." Darreth stood. "Just offering them some wine. No use them fainting along the trail."

Arren rummaged in his pouch and brought out two pieces of dried meat. "Give them that, and then get them on their feet again. We haven't much farther to go. And do bear in mind," he said, turning to Peter, "that one of you might possibly manage an escape, but that would be most unfortunate for the one who was left."

He looked pointedly at Edmund, and Peter pressed his lips together. The message was clear.

In less than an hour, they were at the docks. The place buzzed with activity, ships sailing in and out, captains looking for crew, crew looking for the pleasures of a fresh port of call, cargoes unloaded and loaded. Cargoes of all kinds, including human.

Peter was surprised at the relative openness of Arren's exchange with Serkan. Yes, his ship was docked at the far end of the town, a poor section mostly populated with ragged little shops and taverns that offered drink and more for those who could pay, but even here, it was still strange to see this trade carried out so brazenly.

The slave trader Serkan was a tall and corpselike Calormene with a pocked face and a deceptively mild smile. He had a leisurely manner, as if nothing ever disturbed his equanimity, and it was immediately clear that any difficulties would be attended to by his second, the brutish giant of a man, both fat and big boned, who stood always at his elbow and obeyed his quiet commands without hesitation.

As it happened, Serkan did not ask the names of his new merchandise. He barely spared them a glance. Once Arren assured him the Kings were sound and able to work, the slave trader merely nodded.

"Thirty crescents for the older one. The boy's still but half grown. Twenty for him."

Darreth frowned. "That's not very–"

"Agreed," Arren said. "As long as they go to Tashbaan to be sold."

"Of course, My Lord Duke. Of course." Now, at last, he did look Peter and Edmund over, amusement coming into his dark eyes. "I've seen it often. A nobleman's by-blows come to trouble his true heirs once he's dead? I'll see they inconvenience you no more."

Arren smiled at the ready explanation. "Then we understand each other."

Darreth merely hung his head.

The ropes at Peter's and Edmund's ankles were removed. The ones at their wrists were exchanged for shackles, and they were taken aboard the ship and locked in a barred cell down in the dimness of the hold. Almost immediately, the Calormenes cast off, and Peter sat on the strawed floor searching the frightened faces around them. No doubt they were mostly from the Lone Islands and the Seven Isles, some others from Terebinthia, to be sure. Many of them were no more than children.

Edmund merely sat beside him, silent, mouth set in a grim line, and Peter dredged up a smile.

"They haven't gotten us to Tashbaan yet, Eddie."

Edmund nodded, still not saying anything. Someone in the corner began sobbing, but other than that, there was only the sound of the sea and the groaning of the ship.

For the next hour or more, Peter sat studying what he could see of the hold, the barred cell, the guards who stood watch outside it. Edmund studied his shackles in the unlikely event they could be jimmied open. Neither of them did the slightest bit of good. They didn't talk. Peter suspected that, as he did himself, Edmund was lifting a constant and silent prayer to Aslan to send them help, to send them a way out. But, as of yet, there was only the silence.

Then, about dusk, the cell was opened, and two of Serkan's own slaves brought in the watery soup and coarse bread that was supper for the captives. With a cry, the man who had been sitting nearest the door, bolted out, desperate to make the deck and then, no doubt, the sea, but Serkan's muscle man, the one they called Mucahit, seized him in a crushing embrace and flung him back against the cell bars. There was a sickening crack of bone, and the man cried out in pain.

Serkan only looked on mildly. "You really have been most unwise. Stand up now, and go and finish your meal."

Tears streaming down his face, the man struggled to comply and then fell again. "My– my leg–"

"Broken?" the slave trader asked, his eyes full of sympathy, and the man nodded.

Serkan shook his head. "I see you will be unable to walk now. That means you'll not be able to work. Little use having to feed one who cannot work." He nodded at Mucahit. "Over the side."

The man's eyes widened in terror. "No! No, please! No!"

Peter leapt to his feet, anger burning. "You can't possibly–"

"Think you I do not know my trade, barbarian?"

Serkan nodded to his henchman, and Mucahit dragged the injured man to his feet, wrenching another cry from him.

His dark eyes blazing, Edmund flung himself at the brute, startling him enough to make him release his captive. Peter sprang forward, meaning to hold his brother back, but Serkan pushed the cell door shut, and Edmund faced Mucahit alone.

"Ed, don't!" Peter grasped the bars, fear and fury flooding his body. "Stop! Don't be an idiot!"

His mouth set in a hard line, breath shuddering out of him, Edmund glanced back at Peter, and then he put up his hands and backed away, clearly deciding there was no winning this battle.

"Very wise, young one," Serkan said. "Very wise."

The slave trader opened the cell door again, and with a glance back at the terrified injured man, Edmund walked back towards it. He had just reached the threshold when Mucahit took the shackles that hung at his belt and swung them at his head. Without a sound, Edmund fell into Peter's arms and was still.

**Author's Note: Many thanks to Laura Andrews for reading this over for me and making lovely suggestions. :D**

– **WD**


	4. Psalm 5:9

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER FOUR: PSALM 5:9

Lucy watched from her balcony, looking out over the sea, searching for the Splendour Hyaline. Terebintha wasn't far. How long could it take?

"Susan!" she cried when the ship's great swan's head came into view. "Susan, they're here! They're home!"

Grinning broadly, she leaned out over the railing, willing the graceful vessel to hurry into port. Then her face fell.

Why were the Kings' banners at half mast? Why were the white wings of the ship draped in black?

"Susan?"

Chilled with sudden dread, Lucy sprinted back into her room and out the door, calling her sister as she ran.

"Hurry! I'm going down!"

She pattered down the stairs and raced through the castle until she reached the dock. Susan was right behind her.

"Please!" Lucy called to the Red Dwarf who was first at the ship's railing. "What–"

"Your Majesties!"

Lucy and Susan both turned at the voice that had become so familiar over the past few months.

"Duke Arren," Susan said, shading her eyes against the sun at his back. "We beg you, tell us–"

"Please, Dear Lady, not here. Not here."

He hurried off his ship with his brother, Lord Darreth, each of the Lords taking one of the Queens by an arm and hurrying them back through the murmuring gathering of Narnians, back into Cair Paravel, and the grim-faced crew began lowering the sails.

The moment they crossed the threshold into the castle, Lucy stopped abruptly.

"Where are my brothers? What happened?"

Susan looked at her and then the Terebinthian Lords with tears in her blue eyes, and Arren slipped his arms around Lucy's shoulders, drawing her to him.

"Forgive me, Dear Queen Lucy, for being the bearer of such black tidings."

Susan was weeping openly now, leaning on Lord Darreth, but Lucy forced back her own tears. She wouldn't cry.

"It is a matter of state, Dear Ladies," Arren was saying. "You must call your Counsel and the General of your army. Narnia will be in grave peril once these news become known."

Lucy swallowed down the suffocating lump in her throat. "Peter and Edmund both?"

"Come, Sweetheart," Arren soothed, his eyes confirming her worst fears as he urged her towards the counsel chamber. "Come sit down, and we will tell you all."

Lucy nodded, letting him guide her. She wouldn't, wouldn't cry.

When she saw the shirts, she didn't cry. They were torn into harrowing bits, matted with blood and gore, grass and dirt, chronicles of a death struggle with something wild and vicious.

Lucy touched her fingers to what was left of a sleeve. That was Peter's, she knew. Edmund's shirt, and she recognized it at once too, had been sewn by his Mouse tailors, the stitches impossibly small and fine. Peter's had been made by the Gentle Queen's own hands, her stitches almost as delicate, but on the seam of this sleeve, there were other stitches, serviceable but clumsier than the rest. Lucy's own.

Still she didn't cry. Mr. Tumnus was standing beside her, tears falling freely down his stricken face. She pressed her handkerchief into his hand, but she didn't cry. She didn't cry until she saw the single strand of hair, as tawny and golden as a lion's mane, clinging stubbornly to the battered fabric. She searched the rest of the remnants, but there was no corresponding black strand anywhere. Not even one. She caught up the stiff, brown-stained linen and held it against her wet cheek, still not making a sound, but unable to hold back the tears. Peter. Edmund. Gone.

Why hadn't they taken a guard of some kind as Oreius had urged? At least one of the Falcons or a Hawk who could have watched over them and been swift to get help if it was needed? But, no, they had insisted there was no danger. The Terebinthians had assured them their lands were safe and well running with game and that there need be nothing of ceremony in the brief visit. Peter and Edmund had looked relieved, for a least the day, to be just boys and not Kings.

Oreius stood stone faced, brawny arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes seeing nothing. The twin Tigers who had long served as Peter's personal guard sat on their haunches, heads drooping, large eyes mournful. They had not been able to even try to protect their King from harm. And she thought suddenly of Phillip. Oh, how were they to tell Edmund's beloved Horse that his King was no more?

"The b–" Susan's breath hitched, and she tried again. "The b-bodies?"

Darreth glanced at his brother, looking stricken, but Arren only gave Susan a sympathetic glance.

"There was not–" Arren's pained smile begged for their understanding and forgiveness for having to speak of such things. "I fear, Your Majesty, there was not much left of either of them. We knew them by these."

He laid two seal rings and two pendants on the counsel table, all of them stained with grime and gore. Peter and Edmund–

Her eyes and nose and lips were red and swollen now, her gentle beauty already ravaged with grief, but Susan lifted her head calmly. "And where are the– the remains?"

Arren nodded gravely at his brother. Darreth took a small urn from the pouch he had slung over his shoulder. It was a rich and beautiful thing, gold and ivory and fine carvings of heroic deeds of old, something no doubt that had been a treasured ornament in the house of one of these Terebinthian lords. Now it held–

"You burned them?" Lucy gasped, looking at her sister in horror. "You burned–"

"Please forgive us, Lady," Arren begged. "They were so . . . ravaged. There was truly very little the wild beasts did not eat or carry away. It was difficult to say which of the pieces belonged to which of your royal brothers. My brother and I, we were on the trail of a wild boar. Your noble Kings, a stag. The four of us were to meet again in that clearing. When Darreth and I got there, we found . . . " The Terebinthian could only shake his head. "We only thought to spare you–"

Lucy seized the urn, her hand on the cover, but her sister stopped her.

"Don't. Lu, please." Susan sobbed and pressed her sodden handkerchief to her mouth. "Oh, please, don't."

Lucy opened it anyway. The urn held only black and gray ash and some charred fragments of bone. Nothing she recognized. No one she knew. What had she expected to see?

"As I before told you, Lady," Arren said, finally breaking the silence. "There was not much left to bring home to you."

All that was left of them, of her glorious, beautiful, stalwart brothers, was reduced to ashes, mixed together where it was impossible to say where one ended and the other began. Yet there was something fitting about that much of it. There was no separating them.

Before she could stop them, two large tears rolled down her cheeks and fell on that ash, disappearing into the remains. She had often feared what it would be like to have Peter or Edmund brought home from battle, gallant sword clasped in cold hands, noble face white with death and still under her mournful kisses. She had always thought, even had the worst happened, she would at least have that. She had always thought there would at least be a body to grieve over. Not this. Oh, dear Aslan, not this.

She replaced the lid on the urn and blinked away the last of her tears.

"I want to see where it happened."

**Author's Note: Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 and Laura Andrews for looking this over and making astute comments about it. Your help is much appreciated.**

– **WD**


	5. Proverbs 19:11

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER FIVE: PROVERBS 19:11

Peter jolted awake, not knowing at first where he was. He felt the floor beneath him pitch and roll. Then he heard a curse somewhere a few feet away from him and, beyond that, one of the little girls sobbing, and he remembered.

The night was overcast, moonless and starless, and the sky through the high windows was only slightly less black than the inside of the hold itself. He could feel the weight of Edmund's head in his lap, and he reached out, comforted to come in contact with the familiar thick mop of hair. At the touch, Edmund woke and tried to scramble away from him, but Peter held him where he was.

"It's all right, Ed. It's just me. Shh. It's just me."

Edmund released a shuddering breath and lay there trembling, one hand clutching at Peter's arm.

"Peter?"

"How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts. Peter, why–?"

Whoever had been cursing did so again. "Quiet over there!"

They had already been speaking in whispers, but Peter lowered his voice even more. "Go on back to sleep, Eddie. It's all right."

Edmund held on more tightly. "Why is it so dark?"

"Shh. No moon." Peter slipped his arm around his brother's shoulders and pulled him closer, forcing his voice to stay steady. "It'll be light again in the morning. Go to sleep now."

He sat there with his back against the wooden belly of the ship, stroking Edmund's hair until he felt his breathing deepen into a slow, even rhythm, until he felt the grip on his arm slacken and he knew Edmund was asleep. There was something unsettling about the apprehension in his brother's voice. Edmund was always brave, even stoic, under pressure, more likely to crack a morbid joke than show fear. And, in truth, to almost anyone else he would have sounded just a little bewildered. But Peter knew his brother as well as he knew himself. He could hear the near-panic in Edmund's voice.

Peter needed to see his face, needed to look into his eyes and know he was all right._ My head hurts._ His blood boiled at the memory of that ogreish thug swinging those iron shackles against Edmund's head. Once more he saw his defenseless young brother drop and not move. The hours since then had crawled past like eons as Peter sat in silence, watching over him, praying to Aslan that he would wake soon, that he would just wake. And he had, just after sundown. He had finally stirred. Not opening his eyes, he had assured Peter that he was all right, that he just needed to sleep.

Peter had fretted over the deep, blackening bruise at the back of Edmund's head and had managed to clean it up with a little of the brackish water from the bucket in the corner of the cell, but there was little more he could do. His request for a healer of some sort to tend to his brother had been answered with only a mocking laugh.

Now he had no way to see if the injury was better or worse. He felt for the place in the darkness, just barely touching his fingers to the lump at the back of Edmund's head. He didn't want to wake him again, but the touch told him only what he already knew: Edmund was slightly feverish and no longer bleeding. He had sounded coherent when he was awake, and that was a good sign, but Peter needed to see him. He needed to look into Edmund's eyes and know he was all right. From that fear in his voice, Peter knew he wasn't. Why? Since they'd been Kings, there had been times when they'd been taken captive and locked up. More than once, they'd been chained and beaten. But as long as they were together, Edmund hadn't been afraid. Not this afraid.

Peter held him protectively closer and closed his eyes, exhaustion overwhelming him. "Please, Aslan," he breathed, "get us back home."

OOOOO

The next thing Peter knew was the clang of metal on metal.

"On your feet!" One of Serkan's men banged an iron pipe against the cell bars as the prisoners began to moan and stir. "Up! All of you!"

Edmund bolted up, dark eyes darting around the cell.

"Peter?" He grabbed at Peter's sleeve, his voice soft and wary. "Why are they coming for us in the middle of the night?"

Peter glanced through the bars and up out of the hold, watching the other prisoners as they shuffled onto the deck. The pre-dawn light was only a murky gray, but it was enough to see by, and he smiled faintly. Night owl that he was, Edmund was known at times to call anything before midmorning "the middle of the night."

"I know you're not much of an early riser, Ed, but best do as we're–"

Peter broke off, seeing Edmund was just sitting there, wide eyed and staring, his breath coming in little gasps. Edmund was staring not at him but past him.

"Ed?"

"How long– How long till morning?"

"Edmund?"

Peter turned Edmund's face towards him, looking into his eyes, eyes that were still not focused on him.

"Tell me it's still dark." Edmund's hold on Peter's sleeve was desperate, and now the fingers of his other hand were twisted into the front of Peter's shirt. He was shaking. "Please, Peter, tell me it's not light yet."

"Edmund, look at me."

Edmund patted his hand up along Peter's arm, to his shoulder and then finally to his face. "I can't– I can't see you."

"Now, boy!"

The guard's kick caught Edmund in the lower back, knocking him against Peter. With a roar, Peter flung himself at the Calormene, tackling him to the floor and landing two crushing blows to his face before Edmund's low cry made him freeze.

Serkan stood smiling gently, watching as the guard eased his jaw open and closed. "Have you not yet learned, barbarian?

The ogreish brute, Mucahit, had seized Edmund from behind and pulled him up against himself, his left arm around his captive's chest and his right around his neck. Edmund's boots dangled a foot or so off the wooden floor and his sightless dark eyes were wide with fear, but he didn't make another sound.

Peter held up his hands and backed a step away from Serkan. "No, please, wait. I didn't mean–"

"Two," Serkan told Mucahit, watching as the guard touched one finger to the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. "Don't make a fist."

Peter grabbed his sleeve. "Please, don't hurt him. He's already–"

Serkan looked mildly at Peter's hand. "Shall I make it four?"

"No, please," Peter begged, releasing his hold and taking another step back. "It's my fault. Punish me."

"I am, barbarian. I am."

Serkan nodded at Mucahit. The brute dropped Edmund onto his feet, spun him around and, with all the force in his beefy arm, struck him twice across the face with his open palm. Then he dropped him, insensible, at Peter's feet.

Trembling with helpless fury, Peter started to kneel beside his brother, but Serkan held up one finger, stopping him.

"A wise man learns from his experiences. Indeed, has not one of the poets said, 'The wise man shields himself with discretion, but the fool is taught only with blows'? Be wise, barbarian. Be wise."

With a gentle smile, the Calormene stepped back, and Peter dropped to his knees at Edmund's side.

"I will expect you on deck in ten minutes," Serkan said. "Have him there with you or I will have to assume he is unable to work and deal with him accordingly."

Peter pulled his brother up against him, shielding him in his arms, glaring at Serkan's back until he left the hold. Then he looked at Edmund, his heart breaking at the sight of the helpless, battered face.

_I can't– I can't see you._

Blind? Oh, Aslan, no. No, no, no. Please, he couldn't be. He mustn't be. A blind slave was useless. A useless slave–

_Can't walk now. Can't work. No use having to feed one who can't work. Over the side._

Ten minutes. He had ten minutes. Or was it eight now? Seven? He could still hear the injured man's screams as he was dragged out of the hold and up on deck. Screams that ended with a heavy splash.

"Edmund. Come on, Ed." He patted his brother's cheek as gently as the urgency allowed. "Come on now. Wake up. Please, Eddie, wake up."

Edmund woke with a gasp, his dark eyes flying open but still, obviously, seeing nothing. He curled instinctively into Peter's chest, and Peter hugged him close.

"Peter, I can't– I can't–"

"Shh, I know. I know you can't see. Shh, listen to me. Listen."

Edmund bit his lip, stifling his sobs but still trembling pitifully.

"Listen, Ed. There's no time. If I don't have you on deck in about five minutes now, they'll toss you overboard."

Edmund's fingers tightened into Peter's shirt. "But, Peter, I can't–"

"You can't let them know. You can't let anyone know, you hear me? You know what happened to that man yesterday. They'll do the same with you if they know you're blind."

"But they'll know. They'll be able to tell as soon as I–"

"No, listen. You've got to be calm. You've got to be clever." Peter smiled weakly, even though Edmund couldn't see it. "You've always been good at that, right?"

Edmund hid his face against Peter's shoulder, and Peter felt the warm tears soak through to his skin.

"Shh. I know, Ed. I know." Peter stroked the dark hair, pressing a comforting kiss into it. "You have to be brave now. And sneaky."

Edmund laughed faintly. He prided himself on being sneaky.

"Listen now. Just stick close to me. Keep your head down. They prefer us to be spiritless dogs anyway. No need to look any of them in the eyes. Do as you're told, and we'll get through this. I'll guide you as best I can, but if I can't be next to you, I'll try to give you clues."

"Won't they think it strange if you're giving me directions all the time."

Peter thought for a moment. "Okay, it might be no more than a hint if we need to use it, but remember how we were crowned. You to the west. Me to the north. Susan and Lucy to the south and east. Just imagine north is forward, south is back, west is left and east is right."

Edmund nodded, calming a little as he processed the idea.

"So if I mention little sister, that means you should move right." Peter touched his right shoulder. "Got it?"

"Y-yes."

Peter hugged him again and then stood up, pulling Edmund up with him. "Courage now."

He led his brother to the corner with the water bucket and quickly washed the blood from his face. Then he guided him out of the hold and onto the deck.

**Author's Note: Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for reading this over for me. And thanks to all of you who have reviewed. You make me SO happy.**

– **WD**


	6. Joel 3:3

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER SIX: JOEL 3:3

The slave market at Tashbaan was loud, hot and dirty. Besides the half a hundred shackled, miserable people Serkan had brought from his ship, there seemed to be two or three hundred more here for sale. There was a crowd of onlookers, few of them actually bidding, but the transactions were brisk and brutal. Sometimes the slaves were grouped together for sale. Other times, in the case of a particularly choice bit of merchandise, they were auctioned off singly. More than once, friend was torn from friend, husband from wife, child from parent, but there was only rarely more than helpless tears in protest. The will to resist was, for these poor unfortunates, only a thing of dim memory.

Peter remembered still the slave who had been thrown overboard that first night there on the ship. The night Edmund had been blinded. Brave, foolish Edmund, trying to defend the helpless when he was himself just as helpless. There was something gloriously noble about him, even in his foolishness. But if they had to humble themselves and submit to whatever was asked of them, they would. They were well used to hard work. This would be no different. They would stay alive until Aslan sent them a way of escape.

"Courage," Peter whispered, not for the first time sorry that, with his wrists shackled, he couldn't put his arm around his brother's shoulders. "And whatever happens, don't do anything foolish."

"Don't _you_," Edmund replied, a hint of that familiar smirk on his pale face. "And don't think I don't know you would have jumped on that lump Mucahit if I hadn't."

"It was stupid," Peter scolded. "Neither of us is going to do anything even remotely like that from now on, understand?"

Edmund nodded, and then he leaned into Peter's shoulder. "Peter, what if they– what if we're sold to different places? What if they–"

"Shh."

It wasn't as if Peter hadn't thought of that before now. It wasn't as if the very idea of Edmund blind and helpless and alone hadn't tormented him until he was almost sick with worry. It wasn't as if he hadn't prayed, again and again until the words hardly made sense anymore, that he and Edmund would be sold to the same master.

"They haven't sold us yet, Ed. Not yet."

"But if–"

"Aslan–" _Oh, Aslan, where are You? _"Aslan will be with us, no matter what else happens. We mustn't forget that."

"Keep quiet," one of the guards ordered, and Peter said nothing more.

He had already made sure Edmund knew exactly where the auction block was located. Sometimes the captives were led or dragged to the block. Sometimes they were merely ordered and walked on their own. Edmund would be ready either way.

Peter watched as another slave trader finished dealing his wares and wondered how much Edmund could tell of what was happening just by what he heard. He was glad his brother was spared the heart-wrenching sights. He was glad Edmund didn't have to see that oily little man in the grimy robes buying up many of the less-expensive slaves. Peter clenched his jaw at the sight of them, some of the girls not even sweet little Lucy's age, the few boys seemingly younger than Edmund, going to the vilest of servitude that awaited them.

He tried not to think of his sisters now. No doubt they thought he and Edmund were dead. And those traitors Arren and Darreth– No, he wouldn't think of them either. That way madness lay. He would not always be a slave, Aslan with him, and he would deal with the Terebinthians in good time. Now he had to concentrate on getting himself and his brother through whatever lay ahead of them today.

"Next," the bored guard said, and he gave Peter's shoulder a shove.

"See you soon, Eddie," Peter murmured, hoping there was reassurance in his voice and not the despair he felt.

Edmund only caught a shaky breath and then nodded. "Soon."

Reminding himself he was yet a king and Aslan's chosen, Peter walked to the auction block. Serkan looked on him with an almost fatherly pride.

"Ah, My Masters, I daresay you will see nothing so fine in the market today or, indeed, all this month. This one I have found to be strong and, though young, well grown. I know him to be quick to learn and wise beyond his years."

He gave Peter his mild smile, and Peter could again hear his words._ Be wise, barbarian. Be wise. _Yes, Peter had been quick to learn.

"I am given to understand he has the blood of Terebinthian nobility in his veins," Serkan added, "though I cannot vouch from which side of the blanket he has it. Surely, My Masters, any of you who would have one to oversee your fields or your home with wisdom and discretion and, as well, not be an offense to look upon as so many of our slaves tend to be, you cannot hope to find better in this market or any other."

After a rather hotly contested round of bids from four different Calormene lords, Peter was finally sold to a Tarkaan called Hakan, a man who looked to be in his late thirties, well fed and wealthy, businesslike but not especially cruel looking. He had already bought at least a score of other slaves before Serkan's lot came up for sale.

Peter was taken to stand with Hakan's other purchases, and Edmund was ordered up next. Peter watched anxiously, but his younger brother managed to take his place on the auction block without revealing his blindness.

"Here again, O My Masters, we have a young, noble-blooded Terebinthian. This one, though not yet full grown, is strong and intelligent, able to learn whatever tasks you set him to, quiet and pliant. What am I bid, My Masters? What am I bid?"

Peter clenched his fists when the first bid came from the foul, oily man who had been buying up the younger girls and boys, but the man was quickly outbid by two of the Calormene lords. Peter was relieved when Serkan eventually declared the sale final and thanked Aslan that Hakan had bought Edmund as well. They'd be going together.

"With the others, barbarian," Serkan ordered, and he turned to the next bit of merchandise for auction.

Edmund froze where he was, not knowing where he was to go next.

"It's a good thing our _oldest sister _can't see us now," Peter called out, not sure if Edmund could hear him over the marketplace din, but Edmund turned around where he stood. _That's right, Ed. Susan is south. South is back._

"Of course, it's all _my_ fault we're here."

Shoulders straight, head held high, Edmund took a bold step forward. _Yes, I'm north. North is forward. Well done, Ed._

"_My_ stubbornness. _My_ total idiocy," Peter said, and Edmund took two more steps.

"Even our _little sister _wouldn't have been taken in."

Edmund turned to his right, Lucy's east, but before he could do anything more, he bumped into the guard who was shoving another captive towards the huddle of sniffling young slaves bought by her new owner.

"Make way, filth."

He shoved Edmund aside, making him stumble to one knee. Edmund scrambled up at once and ran straight into the Tarkaan who had just bought him. Immediately, Edmund dropped his head. He'd found it was the best way to keep anyone from studying his face too closely.

"Forgive me, O My Master," he said, his voice soft and submissive.

Seeing the near panic in his sightless eyes, Peter went to him, pulling him down to kneel at his side.

"Your pardon, O My Master. My brother– "

"Look at me, boy." The Tarkaan turned Edmund's face up to him. "Look me in the eyes."

"Please, O My Master," Peter said. "It is not meet that such as we should look upon–"

"Quiet, barbarian. You will look at me, boy, or have a taste of the lash."

Peter could tell Edmund was trying to do as he was told, but it was no use. The Calormene waved his hand in front of Edmund's eyes, but Edmund did not react.

"Serkan!" Hakan roared. "This boy is blind!"

But when Peter looked around, the placid slave trader was gone and someone else was at the block auctioning off a pair of sisters from the Seven Isles.

"It is useless now, O Noble Tarkaan," one of the guards said. "The sale is made. Unless Serkan deceived you by claiming he was not blind, the law gives you no remedy."

Hakan grasped Edmund's shoulder and pulled him to his feet. Peter scrambled up beside him.

"I have no use for a blind slave," the Tarkaan said to the guard. "Put him back on the block again. I will have at least some of my money back."

Peter put himself between Hakan and his brother. "Please, O My Master, do not–"

"I will, not for his own poor worth but for the honor I bear your redoubtable self, happily relieve you of him, if you please, O Noble Hakan." The oily man ambled over to them, looking Edmund up and down. "The boy is fair enough and need not see to do what work we have for him."

**Author's Note: Yes, one can go blind from trauma to the occipital lobe of the brain (getting hit in the back of the head). It's called cortical blindness. Poor Edmund! Thanks again to OldFashionedGirl95 for proofing and suggested improvements. I am ever grateful.**

– **WD**


	7. 2 Thessalonians 3:3

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER SEVEN: 2 THESSALONIANS 3:3

"You will give what I paid, Tahir, O Vendor of Carrion?" Hakan said, eyes narrowed, contempt in his tone. Obviously, the Tarkaan despised the man and his trade, but he was a businessman nonetheless.

The oily man shrugged and turned Edmund's face up to him, considering. Edmund jerked away from the touch, and Tahir snorted. "It may well be, O Noble Hakan, that he will prove to be more trouble than he is worth. Perhaps half?"

The two Calormenes began haggling over price, and Edmund shrank closer to his brother.

"Who's that?" he whispered. "What does he mean? What kind of work?"

Peter put one shackled hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort, not knowing what to say.

"Peter, what kind of work? Why does he care what I look like?"

"He–" Peter bit his lip. "He has a– He– Remember Berg? The owner of that place we shut down in Narrowhaven when we found out about it last year? This Tahir is–"

Edmund took a sharp breath. "No. Oh, Peter, no."

Peter squeezed his shoulder a little more tightly. When they were in Narrowhaven, Peter had wanted to shield his brother from the very idea of such a place, the sort of place unknown in sweet Narnia, but Edmund had insisted on knowing everything. He could not and would not administer justice without seeing the truth for himself. What they had seen then had haunted them both, making them burn with anger against those who would steal and despoil helpless innocents. The thought of his younger brother in a place like that–

"Don't let them take me there," Edmund breathed. "Not there. Please, Peter."

_Oh, Aslan. Not there, _Peter prayed silently. _Not there. Make another way._

"You– you have to be brave. Whatever happens, you have to get through it. You have to."

"Do something." Edmund's words were scarcely audible. "Don't let them– I'd rather– "

"Eddie, there's nothing I can do."

No matter how he resisted, the outcome would be the same. Edmund would be sold. He would be sold to that place. There was nothing Peter could do. There was nothing–

Again he caught his breath.

There was something.

He slipped his hand to the back of Edmund's neck, kneading the warm skin, feeling for the vertebrae, remembering how their Centaur General had once explained to them how to snap another creature's neck with bare hands. Peter's stomach had heaved at the mere thought, and he had prayed then he would never have to put the knowledge to use. But now–

"Don't let them," Edmund breathed, his eyes empty, his face expressionless. "You can't let them take me– take me there. Please, Peter. Remember what Oreius–"

Tears pooled in Peter's eyes, though he, too, merely stood blank faced, staring at nothing. Of course Edmund would know what he was thinking. _Oh, Aslan, please, I can't– _But he couldn't. He couldn't let this happen. The mere thought of his Aslan-bright little brother in such a place, a place he shouldn't– a place neither of them should even know existed, made his breath sharp and agonizing in his lungs, made his blood a slow, painful sludge in his veins. Helpless. He was helpless to stop it. Except there was this one way.

"Are you sure?"

"Peter, please."

Edmund pressed back, leaning into his hand now, and again Peter felt for the vertebrae under the flesh that yet pulsed with life. Still he looked emptily out into nothingness, the squabbling of the Calormenes a low buzz in his ears, the weeping of the other slaves suddenly distinct. He couldn't look at his brother, not into those dark eyes he could never deny, and do what he was going to. What he must.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Eddie, so, so sorry."

He would do it. He had to do it. For Edmund.

Edmund was trembling now, and he drew a hitching little breath. The Calormenes were swiftly coming to an agreement.

"Peter, please. Do it now. Before–"

"You know I love you." Peter steeled himself, tightening the pressure. "You know I–"

"Hakan? O Noble Son?"

Tahir scowled at the interruption of the almost-completed bargain, and Hakan turned to the silk-curtained litter that was waiting to one side of the courtyard.

"O My Mother and Most Esteemed Lady, how may I serve you?"

"Will you sell away the barbarian boy, O My Son?"

Peter eased his hold on Edmund's neck, and Edmund pressed closer to his side, blinking in bewilderment. The woman who leaned out of the curtains had a pleasant, rounded face and large, dark eyes. Her skin was unlined, but her black hair was shot with silver. If she was Hakan's mother, she must be fifty or near it.

"Peter," Edmund whispered, but Peter shushed him, listening.

"Alas, My Mother, the boy is blind. Useless to me. Useless to anyone. Unless our Vendor of Carrion takes him, all I paid for the infidel is lost without remedy."

"I have made a most generous offer, O Lady of Graces," Tahir assured her. "Nearly all your noble son gave for him."

Hakan sneered. "Barely two-thirds."

"And have you made the bargain, O My Son?" the lady asked.

"In all but name, O Noble Lady," Tahir said, but Hakan again sneered.

"It is not entirely accomplished, O My Mother."

"I would speak with the young barbarian," the lady said, and Hakan turned to Peter.

"You, boy, take him to the Lady Cemil."

_Oh, Aslan, could it be– _

"Come on, Ed," Peter murmured

He guided Edmund to the side of the litter and then dropped to his knees, pulling Edmund down beside him.

"O My Mistress and O the Delight of My Eyes," Peter said, head bowed.

The lady smiled and then looked expectantly at Edmund. Peter nudged him with an elbow, and Edmund also bowed his head.

"O My Mistress."

There was a disapproving silence, and then Edmund lifted his face towards the litter, dark eyes wide with perfect innocence, making himself look particularly young and vulnerable.

"You must pardon me, Noble Lady, if, in my woeful state, I cannot rightly call you the delight of my eyes."

"Ed," Peter hissed, but the lady only laughed, the sound as sweet and silvery as the bells that adorned her litter.

"What is your name, young monkey?"

"Edrret, O My Kind Mistress."

"And, Edrret, will you go with Tahir and do his dark work? Or rather would you be a page in my own household?"

"To serve you in honor, O Great Lady, is a privilege of which I dare not dream." Edmund tipped his head a little to one side and put on the impossibly sweet smile that even Susan couldn't resist. "But it is one for which I would forever importune the heavens to repay you."

Ready-witted, silver-tongued Edmund. Peter squeezed his arm in warning. _Tread carefully, brother mine._

The lady turned to her son. "You will keep these two young ones, O My Son?"

Hakan bowed slightly. "If it please you, O My Mother and Noble Lady."

With a smile, the lady looked again at Edmund. "Come, Edrret. Walk along with my people, and we will find what work there is for you to do."

Edmund stood up, drawing Peter to his feet, too. "Might my brother also come, O Most Gracious Mistress, lest I stumble along the way?"

The lady looked Peter over. "You are brothers?"

"We are, Kind Mistress." Peter bowed again. "And we would be honored to attend you."

"We had a bargain for the young dark one, O Noble Hakan," Tahir protested. "The agreement was made!"

"Not quite, O Vendor of Carrion. If My Noble Lady and Mother wishes to keep a new pet, what more can I say? In that, the boy becomes not a loss but a gift."

"Very well, O Shrewd One, I will give you what you paid for him. I can see, though he is the poorest of merchandise, the young barbarian might amuse those who visit my house."

Hakan looked pleased now to have discommoded the oily little man. "Then instead perhaps they will seek out more worthy amusements."

Peter ducked his head, hiding a relieved smile. "Well done, Ed."

Edmund exhaled shakily and nodded. It was only then that Peter noticed the film of sweat on his forehead.

The lady signaled her bearers, and Peter guided Edmund after them out of the courtyard. The last he heard was Tahir offering for Edmund twice what Hakan had paid and, after that, Hakan's laugh.

**Author's Note: Thanks again to Laura Andrews and OldFashionedGirl95 for their proofing and prose poking. It's much appreciated.**

– **WD**


	8. Jeremiah 8:22

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER EIGHT: JEREMIAH 8:22

"Way for the Lady Cemil! Way for the Lady Cemil!"

The lady's guards shoved open a path for the silk-curtained litter, and travelers in both directions shrank back to let the entourage pass. Peter held tightly to Edmund's arm, hurrying him along as best he could.

From the slave market, they followed the litter up and up through the streets, up out of the squalor and filth of the poorer quarters, up along where there were trees and better houses, and then finally up where the palaces of the mighty Tarkaans lay behind their arched gateways, below only the palace of the Tisroc and the Great Temple of Tash.

The white city shimmered with heat, and Peter could feel Edmund tiring beside him. Neither of them had gotten much rest in the past few days, and Peter was sure his brother had at least a mild concussion on top of everything else. He prayed the lady would be kind and have him looked after once they got to her house. Already she had spared Edmund a terrible fate.

She had spared Peter a worse one.

Aslan forgive him, he would have done it. He would have broken Edmund's neck if it would save him being sold to that filth Tahir. He would have broken Edmund's neck and his own heart. After that, he wouldn't have cared. Whatever became of him, he wouldn't have cared. He would have let them put him to whatever work they chose. He would have let them drive him until oblivion and death took him, until he and Edmund met again in Aslan's country. Aslan–

He had sent the lady. To save him and Edmund, He had sent her. Peter knew it._ Oh, Aslan–_

Edmund stumbled at his side, and Peter looked over at him, trying to keep his tone cheerful.

"All right, Ed?"

Edmund turned to him, only a dazed, empty look on his face. Then his eyes fluttered closed, and he slumped into the street.

"Stop!" Lady Cemil leaned out of her litter, dark eyes full of concern. "What has happened?"

Kneeling beside his brother, Peter ducked his head. "Your pardon, My Gentle Mistress, but my brother is not well."

The lady nodded to one of her burly guards. "Carry the boy."

"No, please." Peter slid his arms under Edmund's shoulders and knees and lifted him up, holding him away from the man. "Please, O My Mistress, I can carry him. How much farther now?"

"Not far," she assured him, eyes full of pity. "Not far now."

Soon they turned into an arched gateway set in a high white wall and took the long, wide path lined with fruit trees to the door of a grand, sprawling palace. The lady hurried from her litter and led Peter through the house into a chamber rich with every kind of comfort.

"Put him there," she said, indicating a sort of low sofa upholstered with gold brocade.

Peter did as he was told, settling his brother as comfortably as possible and then kneeling beside him.

"Ed," he murmured, patting his face. "Come on. Wake up."

The lady sat herself at Edmund's other side, looking pityingly into his slack face.

"He's been hurt, I see." She touched gentle fingers to the bruises on Edmund's cheek and to the split in his lip, all courtesy of Serkan's henchman. "Ayla, send for Eser. Hurry."

With a pout, the sylphlike young Calormene girl who had been attending the lady scurried from the room.

Peter pressed two fingers to Edmund's wrist and was relieved to feel the blood beating steadily in his veins. Then he put his hand on Edmund's forehead. He was far too warm, but whether that was from actual fever or just the interminable walk in the Calormene heat, Peter wasn't sure.

"Tell me, boy," the lady said. "Your brother, he was born blind?"

Peter didn't look at her, instead keeping his eyes on Edmund's still face. "No, O Most Kind Mistress. He lost his sight only recently. At the hand of that same slaver who left these marks on him."

"Then you have not always been slaves?"

"No, My Mistress. Until a few days ago–"_ Until a few days ago, we were the Kings of Narnia. _He had to fight to keep the bitter smile off his face. "Until a few days ago, we were free men."

She looked down at her soft hands. Perhaps it had never before occurred to her that slaves were taken from somewhere. That they had once had lives of their own.

"My son," she said, still not looking up, "he is a just man. He will expect a hard day's work of you. Give him that, and you will find yourself treated fairly."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And my brother? He cannot possibly–"

"I will see he is well looked after now. You need not worry."

Peter bit back the anger that welled up inside him, and bowed his head. "I beg you, O Most Noble Mistress, set him free." In sudden desperation, he turned his eyes up to hers. "I will serve you and your family as long as pleases you, as long as I have breath, but let him go. Blind as he is, he cannot work. He cannot be of any use to you. Of your mercy, Kind Lady, set him free."

"And do what, young one? Leave him to starve in the streets? Leave him for such as Tahir to have for the taking? Is this what you would wish for him?"

Edmund's limp hand was clasped in both of Peter's now, and he pressed it to his cheek, lowering his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. She was right. Edmund could never survive alone. And, if Peter stayed here as a slave, he would never see Edmund or their sisters again. _Oh, Aslan. Aslan._

He felt the lady's soft fingers in his hair.

"Be comforted, child. You needn't fear for him here."

Peter squeezed his brother's hand more tightly, forcing down the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Here is Eser, O My Mistress."

Peter looked up. The girl Ayla came into the room leading a little monkey of a man, stooped and wizened, ancient looking in solemn robes and mystical amulets. He bowed to the lady.

"I would pray the gods to rain graces on you, O Noble Lady Cemil, were there any you did not already possess in abundance. How may I in my humble knowledge serve you?"

"I have need of your medical arts, good Eser. This boy is ill."

The physician's fawning expression changed to one of disdain. "A slave? Surely, one of the other–"

"It is my wish that you see to this one, good Eser."

Lips pursed, he shooed Peter away from Edmund's side and made a brief examination. Then he turned to the girl, Ayla.

"Some water, girl, and quickly."

She brought him a pitcher from a nearby table. Without ceremony, he threw the water into his patient's face. Edmund came to with a gasp, and the physician nodded.

"Now he is well again."

Peter seized the old man by the scruff of the neck, thinking how easily he could crush his skull in his bare hands, but the lady held up one hand, signaling Peter to release him.

"Patience, boy."

Peter immediately knelt at his brother's side, blotting the water from his face, calming him, warning him into silence with a touch.

"And you, Eser," the lady said, "have you tired of my favor? Shall I find another physician to tend to me and mine?"

The little man was immediately repentant. "Forgive me, O Noble Lady, but so many of these slaves feign illness so as to escape their rightful share of work. I have, in truth, found it so more often than not."

"The boy is blind from a recent blow to the head," Lady Cemil said coldly. "Can you heal him?"

The physician made a conciliatory little bow and actually examined Edmund's injuries. Then he turned again to the lady.

"Alas, Dearest of Ladies, doubtless the slave has somehow brought offense to the great Tash and is justly punished. There is no remedy."

Peter squeezed Edmund's arm, again warning him to silence, glaring at the old man until he was dismissed and bowed out of the room. No remedy.

Edmund's eyes were closed, his face hidden against Peter's shoulder, and Peter could only stroke his hair.

No remedy.

**Author's Note: Blessings once again upon OldFashionedGirl95 and Laura Andrews for their proofing and poking of prose. **

– **WD**


	9. Genesis 31:49

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER NINE: GENESIS 31:49

_No remedy. _Peter could still hear the disdain in the Calormene physician's voice as he gave the Lady Cemil his prognosis for Edmund's recovery. _No remedy. The slave is justly punished._

Since then, since the monkeyish old man had been dismissed, Edmund had merely clung to Peter, face pressed against his shoulder, not moving, barely breathing. No remedy.

"Don't listen to him, Ed," Peter whispered, managing to put his arms around his brother despite the shackles he still wore. "We'll get someone else. There has to be another doctor you could go to. Our own healers back home. Lucy's cordial–"

"Lucy thinks we're dead." Edmund's voice was soft. Empty. Hopeless. "Maybe Arren has her already. Maybe Susan is already here in Tashbaan, in the Tisroc's harem. And Narnia–"

Peter's hold on him tightened._ Don't say it, Edmund. Don't say it. It's already killing me. Don't you say it, too. _

"We have to– We have to trust that Aslan will watch over them all, Ed. The girls and Narnia. Until we can again ourselves."

He glanced up to see the Lady Cemil watching them, her eyes concerned.

"Forgive me, O My Mistress," he said with another bow of his head. "Is there not someone else? Another physician who might–"

"Alas, Eser, though he is a disagreeable little toad, is wise in the ways of healing, whether by natural or mystical means. If he declares there is no remedy, I fear there truly is none unless, indeed, Tash takes pity upon the poor boy. Tell me . . ." She looked towards the door and then lowered her voice, her dark eyes wide. "In truth, has your young brother done something to displease the great Tash?"

"I daresay he has." Again Peter had to hold back a bitter smile, and he squeezed Edmund's shoulder, reminding him with the touch of all he had done that pleased Aslan and, no doubt, displeased Tash. "I'm sure he has."

The lady gave him an uncertain smile. "Then we must bring him to the great temple where he might beg forgiveness and make amends."

Before Peter could decide how best to reply to that, another of the slave girls scurried into the room and bowed. "O My Mistress, your noble son, the mighty Tarkaan, would speak to you."

"I await his pleasure."

The girl hurried out again, and the lady looked at Peter once more.

"You brother had best kneel, boy, if he is able. It is only wisdom."

"At once, O My Mistress." Peter jostled Edmund's shoulder. "Come on now. Can you stand?"

Edmund nodded, not looking at all steady, but he managed to get to his feet. He dropped to his knees beside Peter just as the Tarkaan came in.

"O My Mother and Most Noble Lady." Hakan gave Lady Cemil a grave nod and then looked over at Peter and Edmund. "I make you a gift of the dark one, My Mother, but why is the other still here? He should be in the fields with the rest, learning the work he is to do."

Lady Cemil gave Peter a warning glance and then smiled mildly at the Tarkaan. "The younger boy has been hurt, O My Son. His brother merely wished to tend to him."

Hakan scowled. "You coddle them, O My Mother. I am told you called your own physician to examine him!" He shook his head. "Be that as it may, I paid far too much for the elder to leave him to idle here with your girls. Come, boy, to your work."

Edmund pressed closer into Peter where they knelt, and Peter knew it was a farewell. Peter pressed back and then bowed his head to the lady.

"I thank you for him, O Most Kind Mistress."

He stood and briefly touched his hand to his brother's tousled black hair, the blessing silent but for the rattle of his chains. Then he made a grave bow to the Tarkaan and followed him from the room, glancing back at the threshold to see Edmund still kneeling, bruised face pale as porcelain and desperate, dark eyes turned, unseeing, towards the sound of his going, lost and alone and afraid.

_Be strong, brother mine. Please. And, please, Aslan, be with him._

OOOOO

Lucy leaned on the railing of the Splendor Hyaline, Terebinthia at last behind her and Narnia ahead. She glanced back to see Duke Arren still on the dock, watching her with sympathy and protectiveness.

Hah.

She was glad he and his brother had been called away to some business and were not able to escort her back to Cair Paravel.

"You saw it too, didn't you, Babur?"

The Tiger who stood at her left with narrowed eyes growled softly and bared his teeth. "Yes, Your Majesty. It was too clean. Either of our Kings would have torn that clearing apart before he would surrender the other to Fell Beasts. They were both too wood wise to be taken so easily. Did you not think so, Bast?"

"And the smells were wrong," the Tiger on Lucy's right said, snarling like her twin. "Even now, it is obvious. There was the scent of deer and of other harmless forest animals, squirrels and rabbits and such. Our High King was there, especially near the large oak, as was the King Edmund. But any smell of wolves or anything else that might have been a true danger to the Kings was very old and faint. Or, should I say, anything on four legs that might have been a danger to them." She, too, bared her teeth. "The Duke Arren and Lord Darreth were there as well."

Lucy nodded, glad to have Peter's Tigers with her. Oreius would never have allowed her to leave the Cair now without a guard, but Bast and Babur were good for more than mere protection. They were formidable allies and clever, too. One or the other of them had always managed to be subtly in the way when Arren had tried to take her hand or put his arm around her, always in a comforting, protective way, to be certain. She hadn't been quite sure why it bothered her before, for it was nothing either of her brothers might not have done, or Mr. Tumnus or any of their other trusted friends. Now she understood her sudden dislike. No doubt these Terebinthians had somehow made away with Peter and Edmund. But made away how? And where?

She bit her lip, thinking hard as she looked out towards home, trying not to imagine a hope that could not be. But, oh, Aslan, could it be that they were not dead? If not, where were they and why were they taken? It could only mean some grave plot against Narnia, she was sure. But even with the Kings captive, that did not mean Narnia was helpless. There were still Aslan's chosen Queens.

OOOOO

"Come along, boy," the Tarkaan ordered.

Peter followed behind him, through the maze of the palace corridors, towards the back of the house, no doubt. The Tarkaan halted as, from an intersecting corridor, there came the chatter and laughter of seven or eight brightly dressed girls. Suddenly there was silence, and all but one of the girls prostrated themselves on the marble floor. The last one remained standing but bowed low.

"O My Wife and O the Delight of My Eyes," the Tarkaan said to this one, an indulgent smile softening his face. "What business have you stirring in the heat of the day?"

She lifted her eyes, large, doe-like brown eyes under delicate, dark brows, and gave her husband a demure smile. "We merely thought sitting under the trees in the north garden might be pleasant and cool until the sun leaves us, O My Most Noble Husband and Mighty Tarkaan. Will you not accompany us?"

"Alas, My Gazelle, there are matters to which I must attend. This slave should have been sent down to the fields with the others I bought today and not brought here. Now I am forced to see to him myself."

The girl, she could have been no older than Susan, noticed Peter for the first time and glanced at him from under her thick lashes.

"Are all barbarians so dirty, O My Husband?" She smirked. "And so insolent?"

Eyes flashing, the Tarkaan cuffed Peter on the back of the head. "You will kneel before the Tarkheena."

Jaw clenched, Peter did as he was told.

She laughed lightly and made a slow circle around him. "And so sullen?"

"Do not trouble yourself, my Yesim," the Tarkaan said, again that indulgent smile on his face. "He will be kept in the fields along with the other beasts and will no longer offend you."

"And will you go down to the fields today, O My Husband?" She sidled up to Hakan, taking his arm, nestling her head against his shoulder, all the while studying Peter from under her half-lowered eyelids. "The way there is long and it is already well into the afternoon. I had hoped we might dine together this night."

He stroked his fingers along the alluring curve of her cheek. "It may well be that he can go down in the cart in the morning."

"And you will come to the garden with us now?"

She glanced coyly up at him and then looked down again, and the Tarkaan chuckled.

"Away with you, minx. When I have seen to business, then I will have time for more pleasant company."

"But you won't go down to the fields today?"

"No, O Persistent One. Not today. Now you and your butterflies be gone."

She bowed low at the dismissal, giving Peter a sly smile as she did. Then she and her servant girls fluttered away. For a moment, Hakan said nothing, waiting until they were out of sight, then he seized Peter by the front of his shirt.

"Hear me, barbarian. My Lady Mother allows her slaves too many liberties and they become insolent. Do not think you shall be so coddled under my hand. Do you hear?"

Peter swallowed down the urge to shove the man away, to strike him in the face and tell him to never again lay hands on the High King of Narnia. _Be wise, barbarian. Be wise._ For his own sake and for Edmund's, he had to be patient. There would be a time and a place. Aslan would not forget His own.

He dropped his head. "Yes, O My Master."

"And it would be most foolish for you to forget your place in the presence of my Tarkheena," the Tarkaan continued. "You will bear in mind that, before her, you are the filth of the streets. If you ever again have the favor to be in her presence, you will show her no less worship than if the great goddess Zardeenah, sister of the inexorable Tash, appeared before you."

Peter kept his eyes on the floor, hiding his faint, sardonic smile. "No less, O My Master. No less."

**Author's Note: Thanks again to OldFashionedGirl95 for letting me badger her mercilessly with my frivolous stuff.**

– **WD**


	10. Isaiah 49:15

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TEN: ISAIAH 49:15

Peter slumped against the stable wall and wolfed down the coarse bread and boiled meat he had been given. The Tarkaan, obviously not wanting to be bothered with him for the rest of the day, had turned him over to the stablemaster. The hard-eyed Calormene had removed his shackles and set him to mucking out stalls, and Peter had thrown himself into the task with a genuine vengeance.

Arren and Darreth who would dare sell the Kings of Narnia into captivity and Serkan who would carry them off to Tashbaan to sell again, Mucahit who had so carelessly taken his brother's sight, this Hakan who had bought him and Edmund as if they were dumb beasts, even the Tisroc, may he burn forever, who cast greedy eyes upon his sister and his kingdom, all of them had glimmered before Peter's eyes, and he had stabbed the hayfork into the filthy straw and waste as if they were the entrails of his enemies.

Now he sat chained by one ankle to a post meant for the horses. The merciless Calormene sun had long since sunk out of sight, and his food was too soon gone. Serkan had evidently thought it poor business practice to waste food on slaves who would soon be someone else's property, and this was Peter's first meal today. He hoped Edmund had been fed. Surely the lady would see to that. Thank Aslan, Edmund had been given to into her kind care. If only he would be patient and wait until the Lion made them both a way out. _Please_, Peter begged silently, _don't do something stupid, brother mine_.

He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and then pulled off his filthy shirt. The stablemaster and the other slaves he had seen in the courtyard had gone to their rest. Evidently Peter was meant to sleep where he had been left, and he decided he would at least make himself more comfortable. He hadn't had a chance to wash since he and Edmund had been taken, however long ago that had been, so it was a relief to kneel before the horse trough and duck his head under the water.

It was warm from the day's heat, but it was clean and it was a relief to feel it on his skin, in his hair, on his chafed wrists. The night was dark and the wind was picking up, and for the first time in Calormen he began to feel cool if not clean.

He sat again with his back to the trough and patted his face dry with his shirt. Before he could do anything more, he heard a woman's light laugh, and he looked up to see a shadowy figure standing near one of the pillars of the porch.

It was the Tarkheena.

OOOOO

"I saw the other barbarian when he left here, O My Mistress. They are not very alike, are they?"

The unfamiliar voice pierced Edmund's consciousness, and he realized he must have at some point blacked out again. His shackles were gone, but he was still on the little couch where he had been before. He lay unmoving, trying to remember where he was and what had happened. The Lady Cemil, he remembered her. She had soft hands and a kind voice, though that last voice had not been hers. The Lady Cemil had given him something cool to drink, something too sweet and, at the same time, faintly bitter. Perhaps that was why he didn't remember anything else until now.

But he still remembered too much. He kept his eyes closed. There was no use opening them. _No remedy_. He was blind. Forever. And Peter– Peter was gone. Edmund could still feel that last touch against his hair, that last silent blessing before he left.

He wouldn't cry. He was a man. He was a King.

_You've got to be calm. You've got to be clever_. He could still hear the low comfort of Peter's voice from he didn't know how long ago. _You have to be brave now. And sneaky._

He lay still, keeping his face slack as if he yet slept, making sure not even a twitch of a smirk showed on his lips. He could do this. The Lady Cemil had taken pity on him, on his youth, on his captivity, on his blindness. If she liked to think he was a helpless child, he would let her. He would learn her ways, the ways of the house, and he would await his opportunity. He would be calm and clever, brave and sneaky, and one day he would find a way to get to Peter, to get to Narnia. Until then–

"Are you certain they are brothers, O Noble Mistress?" that unfamiliar voice asked, and then he recognized Lady Cemil's sweet laugh.

"I wondered that very thing, Fareeha. But seeing the elder's gentle care of him, I could believe nothing else. They _are_ quite different, are they not?"

"As different as bright sun and pale moon, but, perhaps, something about the mouth . . . " The other voice, a voice with more than a touch of age in it, trailed off, and Edmund knew she was studying him. "Has he his brother's sky-colored eyes?"

"No. His eyes are as dark as those of our own people. They put me in mind of . . . " Lady Cemil took an unsteady breath. "Asil had such eyes."

"And the wealth of black hair," the older woman said, and Edmund felt work-roughened fingers smooth the hair from his forehead. "And was of such an age."

"I think you loved him almost as I did."

"Indeed, Dear Mistress. Did I not tend him from his first breath to his last?"

Edmund lay still, listening, pitying the lady her loss and the still tender grief she carried. Neither of the women said anything for a long time. Then the lady laughed, a faint, half-choked laugh.

"Well, we are foolish old women, are we not? Perhaps we ought look to the present rather than the past. This boy is half starved by the look of him."

"That's easily seen to, O My Mistress. I will make him some of my broth at first. Then when he is ready, he shall have something heartier." The older woman, Fareeha, turned his face gently to one side, no doubt still searching him over. "And he shall have ointment for his wounds. _After_ he is bathed."

Edmund forced his breathing to stay slow and steady, but it was, he decided, time he let them know he was awake. He moaned softly and let his eyes flutter open.

"How are you feeling now, young one?" the lady asked. "You have slept long."

"Your pardon, O My Mistress." He tried to sit up, thinking he ought to kneel again, but she held him where he was.

"It is well," she soothed. "It is well. You had need of rest. And now I daresay you would do well for having something to eat."

His stomach growled in answer, and he felt the color flush into his face. "It would be most welcome, O My Mistress."

"Some of your broth, Fareeha, if you please."

"At once, O Noble Mistress."

The older woman scurried away, and Edmund once more tried to sit up. This time the lady put her hand behind his back and helped him.

"When did you last eat, Edrret?" she asked.

He thought for a moment, trying his best to feel the warmth of the sun that had earlier fallen on his left side. "Forgive me, My Kind Mistress, but is it still the day I was brought here?"

"That same evening, young one."

"Again I ask your pardon, Most Kind Mistress. I have been most troublesome to you."

"No, indeed, child. And did I not tell your brother you would be well looked after now?"

Edmund bit his lip, blinking hard to ward off the tears that burned behind his eyes. "My brother is– He's being looked after as well? Will he come back?"

The lady patted his arm. "I am certain he has been fed. Likely some while ago. You need not worry. My son does not starve his slaves."

"But will he come back?" Edmund turned his head, as if it were possible to hear Peter's returning footsteps. "Tonight?"

She did not answer. She merely continued to pat his arm.

"Please, O My Mistress, will he?"

"He will have been sent down to the fields, young one," she said at last, her voice gentle and consoling. "If not now, he will be soon. He is unlikely to come here ever again."

**Author's Note: Thanks as always to OldFashionedGirl95 for various prose pokings and missing-word-sightings and objections to potential stupidity. You are greatly appreciated, dear one.**

– **WD**


	11. Psalm 39:7

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER ELEVEN: PSALM 39:7

"First, young one, it is time you were bathed."

The old nurse Fareeha had led Edmund from Lady Cemil's chamber and into one that sounded much smaller and emptier. Now she caught up the bottom of his shirt, obviously meaning to pull it off over his head. He drew back from her, crossing his arms over his chest, effectively pinning the shirt in place.

"Now, now," she clucked. "You needn't be bashful, boy. I've bathed and nursed all kinds in my day, many of them more grown than you. Even the mighty Tarkaan himself. It's no different than if I were your own mother–"

"I am blind," he said in the firm voice he used when pronouncing judgement from his throne in Cair Paravel. "Blind, not helpless."

He would do things for himself, whether or not he could see, however awkward it felt at first. Oreius had frequently put him and Peter through training blindfolded or in the dark of night, honing their senses of hearing, touch and smell, and Edmund would build on that. He could do this, and he would.

"Well then, O Fierce One," Fareeha said, and he could hear a touch of amusement in her tone as she seized his hand and put it on the edge of the tub. "Your bath is here. Towels here on the side." Then she moved his hand, bringing it to rest on what felt like a pile of clothing on the nearby footstool. "Put these on when you're finished. If you find yourself not so invincible as you believe, you need only call."

He stood there stiffly, still with his arms crossed, until he heard her leave the room. Then he managed to find his way to the door.

"Fareeha?"

He kept his voice soft, not wanting to call her back, just wanting to make sure she was gone. When no answer came, he felt along the wall until he found some sort of heavy chest. He managed to drag that in front of the door, and then he undressed and got gratefully into the bath.

OOOOO

The Tarkheena laughed again, a laugh as light and airy as the spray of water in an ornamental fountain, and Peter pushed himself to his feet, begrudging her the effort it cost him. He had spent the afternoon mucking out stalls and then had too little to eat and only the horse trough to wash himself in. It put him in no mood to be gawked at like some curiosity on display.

"O My Mistress," he said, voice flat.

Reminding himself he was yet the High King of Narnia, he looked on her with his shoulders straight and his head unbowed and set his face in cool, impassive lines. Something flickered in her eyes, perhaps a touch of pique that he was not properly servile before her, or maybe it was intrigue at the idea that he dared not be. Glancing back towards the house, she stepped off the covered porch and into the moonlit courtyard.

"I have not–" With another backward glance, she flitted over to him. "I have not seen many of you fair-skinned barbarians before now, but those I have seen have not had sunlit hair or eyes like the sky and sea together. I did not know there were such men."

Her gaze moved from his face to his still-wet chest, and he quickly pulled the sweat-stained shirt back over his head. Arren's shirt. Not even that much was his own. His expression turned yet cooler.

Again her lips twitched into a smile. "You reek of horses."

"They are what one encounters when one comes to a stableyard, O My Mistress." He bowed his head perfunctorily. "I see my presence offends you. Perhaps you should leave so unworthy a place." He gave his chain a slight rattle. "I am unable to."

The corners of her mouth tipped up. "No. Not yet, I think."

She came closer to him, eyes dark and wide, lips slightly parted, head tilted a bit to one side. Hesitantly, she stretched out her hand and touched his damp hair, and then she laughed in soft wonder, feathering her fingers through it.

"I thought it might be cold and hard, like gold." She plucked two or three strands and brought them close to her face, examining them in the silvery light before releasing them to the wind. "I had a young lion once. In the garden. His mane was much like this, though yours is much finer." She touched his hair again, so lightly he could barely feel it. "And you are more beautiful."

He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep down a bitter laugh. Any other time, he might have felt a sting of temptation, something he was not immune to, something he was long used to mastering. Now, though, despite the girl's obvious beauty, he realized he felt only profound weariness, the deep, burning anger that had fueled his work, and a flicker of irritation that he was not to be left alone with his thoughts. He merely watched her warily, saying nothing.

"I went to look at the other barbarian." Her eyes were fixed on his. "The one my noble husband gave to his lady mother today. I went to see if he was like you."

Peter caught a quick breath. "You saw my brother?"

"He was sleeping, but yes, I saw him."

Sleeping? Had Edmund passed out again?

"Please, O My Mistress, was he well?"

She shrugged, looking pleased to know she had pierced his coolness. "I do not know. He was very pale."

Edmund was always pale, and surely, in her eyes, so was Peter. But how was Edmund really?

"The Lady Cemil, did she say–"

The Tarkheena merely fluttered one slim hand. "She will see to him, I am certain, but I am curious. How is it that you and he are so unalike? They say his eyes are nearly as black as his hair. Perhaps your father had one of my people for his mistress?"

There was something matter of fact and almost innocent about the question, and he realized again how young she was. Younger than he, it seemed certain. Not so much older than Edmund. Perhaps she was only curious after all. He let his face soften.

"We have the same mother, O My Mistress. The wife of our father. He has no one else."

"Then he is like my Tarkaan. I always thought it rather strange, but he seems content to have it so."

He remembered the fervent look in Hakan's eyes when he had warned Peter to show the proper respect to his Tarkheena. Perhaps that intensity had sprung from passionate love. If just out of regard for that, Peter resolved to show her a special deference. He would be sent down to the fields in the morning anyway, and this girl would no longer trouble him with her questions and piercing glances.

"He will be looking for you, O My Mistress," Peter told her.

She gave her airy laugh in response. "He has been called away to the Tisroc (may he live forever). The other Tarkaans and some Terebinthians have met to discuss the news of Narnia."

Peter blinked. "Narnia, Mistress?"

She tilted her head to one side. "Have you not heard? The young Kings, both of them, were set upon by enchanted talking Beasts and swallowed down alive."

For a moment he was silent. "Then they are certainly dead?"

"Oh, yes." She pouted slightly. "And I had hoped to one day see them. I have heard they were well worth looking on."

"And the Queens?" _Oh, Aslan, please, some news of the girls. And, please, please, let them yet be safe. _"The Queens Lucy and Susan?"

The girl shrugged. "No one seems to know for certain. It is said the Queen Lucy went to see for herself the place where her brothers were killed. She was in the company of Tigers they say, fierce and obeying no one but her after the death of the High King. Then she came back to her castle and shut herself away with her sister, and no one has seen either of them since. Some think they have died of pure grief."

Peter was pierced by a sudden, keen hope. Dear Lucy. She had been wise enough to take his Tigers, Bast and Babur, to that clearing in Terebinthia. They would see. They would know Arren and Darreth's tale was false. And if Lucy and Susan had not been seen since, it would not be because they had died of grief. Not his Queens, bless Aslan, not his Queens. They would stay protected behind the walls of Cair Paravel until they had worked out some way to save Narnia and themselves and, please, Aslan, find him and Edmund.

Peter knew Arren and Darreth were in league with Calormen. They had to be the Terebinthians the Tarkheena had spoken of. But why were they here in Tashbaan and not preparing to take Narnia? Why hadn't Calormen struck already? Had Arren and Darreth moved against him and Edmund before Calormen was ready?

"The Terebinthians, My Mistress, are they–"

"O Noble Lady Yesim!" One of the servant girls Peter had seen in the corridor earlier ran into the courtyard and threw herself at the Tarkheena's feet. "My Master, the mighty Tarkaan, has returned. He mustn't find you here."

Dark eyes wide, the Tarkheena hurried back inside with her servant, not sparing Peter even a glance. He sat again next to the water trough, considering the news he had just heard. News of Narnia. News of home. Did Edmund know what was being said about them and their sisters? Was there any way to get to him now?

Peter tugged, not for the first time, on the chain at his ankle, harder and fiercer and more frantically until he had no more breath and his skin was again gleaming with sweat. The chain was as unyielding as the Calormen sun. He couldn't get to Edmund. He couldn't get to Lucy or Susan or Narnia. He drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face against them. He would be sent down to the fields in the morning, wherever down to the fields was. He would be sent away, and then . . .

Only Aslan knew.

**Author's Note: Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for looking this over before I foisted it on the world.**

– **WD**


	12. Ecclesiastes 2:20

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWELVE: ECCLESIASTES 2:20

Peter wiped the sweat from his face and looked up into the merciless sun. There were many things he hated about this land of his captivity, this Calormen, but he hated most its unrelenting sun. It beat down on his back in punishing waves, burning his skin through his shirt, through his hair, sapping his strength and battering his spirit and making the cool forests of Narnia seem like nothing but the faint memory of a dream.

He looked north, always north. Narnia lay to the north, fresh, green and sweet. To the north lay Cair Paravel, gleaming on the blessed Eastern Sea, her unbreeched walls, he prayed, keeping his sisters safe from harm. And nearer and yet still north lay the palace of the Tarkaan. He couldn't help wondering if, even under the protection of the Lady Cemil, Edmund was safe and well. He knew his brother, knew that worry often stole away his appetite and broke his sleep.

Peter was pierced through with the memory of his last sight of Edmund, of the fear and hopelessness that had flooded those dark eyes. Those blind eyes. Peter squeezed his own eyes shut, willing his brother to be strong in spite of his circumstances, wishing he could be there to speak courage to him in his darkness.

He put his hand up, instinctively reaching for the pendant that had once hung over his heart. _His and not my own_. He remembered. They were Kings. They were Aslan's. Did Edmund remember, too? Did he–

"Get to work, barbarian."

Peter hardly flinched at the too-familiar sting of the overseer's rod across his shoulders. He merely bent down and lifted one of the large flat stones from the cart and set it into place on the riverside path.

For almost a month, he had toiled in the Tarkaan's fields, in the endless fields of flax that would eventually be made into the finest of Calormene linen. But now, since the Tarkheena had expressed a desire to take cool walks beside the river that flowed not far from her husband's palace and since she found the well-worn pathway too rough for her delicate feet, several of the strongest slaves had been sent from the fields and up into the city, up among the Tarkaans' palaces, to build a walkway of stone along the riverside.

Those who were skilled at such work smoothed the ground, preparing it, and fitted the flat stones together. Peter merely did as he was told, a dumb beast carrying those stones over and over and over again from the cart to the ever-growing pathway, but his thoughts turned north and ever north. A way home. There had to be a way home. A way out. And Edmund–

"Way! Way for the Lady Cemil! Way! Way! Way!"

Peter looked up at the cries of the litter bearers. The Tarkaan's mother, kind Lady Cemil. She would have news of his brother. She would be gracious enough to tell him how Edmund fared now. If he could only get to her.

It wasn't far from the river to the street, just a few yards through the trees. He could see the litter now. He could hear the bearers and the jangle of the bells and see the bright silks that fluttered in the breeze. She was close now. He could see her reclining there in her cushions with a slave girl fanning her face.

He took a step forward, and her eyes met his. She remembered him, he saw that she did, and he reached out one hand. "Please, O My Mistress–"

"I said get to work, barbarian!"

The command was accompanied by a curse and two blows of the rod. Peter gritted his teeth, biting back a gasp, but when he looked up again, he could see the lady no more. The litter had passed on.

He went back to the cart and lifted out another stone.

OOOOO

_Seventy-three. Seventy-four. Seventy-five._

Edmund pulled himself up on the ornamental grillwork that barred the window, hearing from some distant part of his memory the old, old tune his grandfather Pevensie had often whistled. _. . . only a bird in a gilded cage._

_Seventy-six. Seventy-seven._

It felt good to work his muscles again. After five years of battle and, spared that, grueling training under Narnia's Centaur general, Edmund had found himself restless now with inactivity. He longed to spar with sword and dagger and lance, to gallop through Narnia's green fields, to run along the beach with his brother and sisters or swim in the sea with the Merfolk.

_Seventy-eight. Seventy-nine. Eighty. Eighty-one._

He made his muscles bunch and stretch, arms and legs and stomach, back and shoulders, pushing through the pain and exhaustion, forcing himself to endure. Oreius wouldn't have let him quit before he'd reached his goal. Peter wouldn't have let him.

_Eighty-two. Eighty-three. Eighty-four. Eighty-five._

It seemed he did nothing but count these days. So many steps from the door to the window. So many steps from the window to the tiny side room with the pallet where he slept. So many steps to the kitchen, to the garden, to the arched gateway that led to the street . . .

_Eighty-six. Eighty-seven._

That gate was rarely closed. He'd never found it locked.

_Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine. Ninety._

He counted voices. Eight young ones, the Lady Cemil's servant girls, Ayla and the others, his own age and younger. The lady herself. The old nurse, Fareeha. That made ten he regularly heard. The lady's litter bearers never spoke. Perhaps they were mute. Sometimes he heard the voice of the Tarkaan or the overseer of the house, Direnc. Sometimes he heard the silky voice of a woman, older than the lady's girls but not by very much. He rarely heard anyone else.

_Ninety-one. Ninety-two. Ninety-three._

He counted beads. Each day since Peter had gone, he had pulled a bead from the trim on one of the footstools and hid it under his sleeping pallet. There were twenty-six now. Twenty-six.

_Ninety-four._

Six more to go. The muscles of his abdomen protested as he drew his knees once more to his chest, his biceps objecting, too, as he pulled himself up again and again. Blind, he reminded himself, not helpless. Not helpless.

_Ninety-five. Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-_

"Edrret!"

His boots thudded as they hit the ground, and he dropped his head, still panting with effort.

"Your pardon, O My Mistress."

"What madness is this, young one?"

He heard the Lady Cemil's rushing steps and then she caught his chin and turned his face up to her, blotting away his sweat with a silken cloth.

"Did you not think you might fall?"

"Forgive me, Kind Mistress."

He pulled away from her, managing to keep the irritation out of his expression. He was a King and a warrior and nearly a man grown, yet she treated him like a fragile child. It was maddening.

"I had thought I should like to take the air." She stroked the hair from his forehead, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "If you care to wash your face and change your tunic, you may accompany me."

He thought she had already gone out in her litter today, but perhaps she had only been in another part of the house. He was tired now and hot, but he always welcomed the chance to leave the palace grounds.

"It may be pleasant to walk along the river," she said, and he bowed slightly.

"Yes, Most Noble Mistress. I will be no more than a moment."

He went into his room and stripped off his tunic and shirt. He had been glad on that first day to know he would be spared the more outlandish Calormene clothes. The lady had provided him with a shirt and tunic and breeches not so different from what he was used to, but they had had a disagreement over his boots. His boots were the last of the things he could truly call his own, and he was loath to part with them. And he utterly refused to wear those shoes that turned up at the toe. Seeing his steely determination, the lady had finally relented. He kept his boots.

He splashed cool water from the basin on his face and neck and chest and then dried himself and put on fresh clothes. Then he went back to the lady and bowed before her.

She smoothed his damp hair, untangling it with her fingers, and then called to her girls. "Come along, all of you."

Two or three of them groaned in complaint, no doubt wishing to stay out of the punishing sun, but they followed the lady out to her litter. As she had suggested, they followed the path along the riverside.

"The day is hot, my young monkey," Lady Cemil said after a while, and Edmund could hear the swish of the fans her servant girls used to cool her.

Edmund wiped the sweat from his upper lip and leaned against the litter, wishing he hadn't bothered to wash and change. "It is, O My Mistress. Perhaps we should return to the house where it is cooler."

"Oh, not yet, I think. But I see my flask is empty. Go down to the river and fill it for me."

Edmund felt a flicker of irritation at that. He had made sure the flask was full of cool water before they left. It was one of his duties. Surely it couldn't be empty already. And he had never been set such a task on his own away from the house.

He could hear the rush of the water and the shouts of the overseer commanding the slaves who were building a stone pathway alongside it, so he knew the river wouldn't be far, but any time he was away from his usual areas in the house or the garden, he couldn't squelch that little whisper of fear that told him he was defenseless and vulnerable. He thought what it might be like to fall into the rushing water now, unable to see whether he was fighting his way back up to the surface or thrashing further down until there was no return, and his stomach gave a rebellious heave.

"Perhaps Ayla might be more suited–"

Ayla made a little huffing sound. "I am occupied with attending our lady, boy. You would do well to do as you are told."

"And you likewise, Ayla," Lady Cemil said with only the mildest reproof. "Now, go and tell the overseer I would speak to him. Be quick now. And take the boy along with you to the riverside. See he does not stumble."

"Yes, O My Mistress." Ayla sniffed and hopped out of the litter and then took Edmund's arm. "Come on, then, boy."

Without another word, she half-dragged him down the path to the water's edge and left him there. He heard her speak to the overseer who hurried to the noble lady's side. Then, before Edmund could even kneel by the water, the overseer's voice rang out, giving the slaves a moment's respite from work. Edmund could hear their groans of relief, heard them shuffling to sit where they were or to kneel to cool their parched throats with river water.

He knew he had been shown special favor by the Lady Cemil and that he had been spared all but the very lightest burdens of slavery, but he knew now that he would rather be in the fields working alongside his brother than, kind as she was, kept as this lady's pampered pet. How many of these poor dogs, the ones now panting for breath, grateful for just a moment's rest from their labors, how many of them would thank heaven with tears to take his place for only a few hours?

He sank to one knee, head bowed, knowing he should be grateful for the favors he had, knowing Aslan had watched over him here and always. If only Peter– A sob escaped him before he even knew it was there.

"Boy."

Edmund caught his breath and quickly wiped his sleeve over his eyes. Then he stood up, listening, trying to figure out where the unfamiliar voice had come from. It was a man's voice, a Lone Islander from the sound of him.

"Listen, boy. I'm supposed to tell you, 'big sister, big brother five times, little sister, big brother twice. Don't ask me what it's supposed to mean.'"

Again Edmund caught his breath. Could it–?

"Wait!"

But he knew by the rustle of grass that the nameless messenger was gone. He didn't care. Breath coming in shallow little gasps, he turned around, walked five paces forward, turned right and then took two more steps forward. Then he put out his hand. Someone was there. Someone with a sturdy chest and broad shoulders, a strong jaw and a mouth that turned up at the corners, lifting the wet cheeks.

Edmund threw himself into the open arms.

"Peter. Peter, Peter, Peter."

**Author's Note: Many thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for more prose pokings and clarifications and for sharing her knowledge of the geography of Tashbaan.**

**If you'd like to read more of this story, please review. It's makes me inordinately happy.**

– **WD**


	13. Psalm 27:14

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: PSALM 27:14

Edmund was nearly crushed in Peter's arms, lifted off his feet and kissed soundly on the side of the head. He clung tightly, pressing his face against Peter's chest, into the curve of his neck, not caring about the dirt and sweat smeared now on his own wet face. He could feel Peter's shuddering breaths, but he hadn't said anything yet. Why hadn't he said anything?

"Peter?"

A sudden terror flooded over him. He'd heard of slaves having their tongues torn out for offenses real and imagined. He had always wondered about the Lady Cemil's litter bearers, silent but for the one who called out for passers by to make way.

"Peter?" He put his hand to Peter's throat and then to his lips. "Please, Peter, say something. Are you–"

He heard Peter's tearful, half-choked laugh. "I'm– I'm trying to, Ed."

Edmund felt his own throat tighten. Softhearted, over-emotional Peter–

"You great, sobbing baby."

Peter hugged him once more and then pushed him back, holding him by the shoulders, no doubt searching him over.

"Aren't they feeding you, Edmund?"

Edmund laughed wetly. "The lady's worse than Susan about pestering me to eat. It's driven me half mad."

He expected to hear Peter say something about him being half mad already, but Peter only squeezed his shoulder.

"Please, Ed, you've got to. I worry about you."

Edmund managed a smirk. "You worry about me anyway. And I eat plenty. I–"

He felt Peter's hands on the sides of his face.

"You're thinner. I can see it already."

Edmund pulled away from him, jaw clenched. "What am I supposed to do, Peter? Gorge myself on treats while who knows what's happening in Narnia? While you're out here being driven like a mule?"

"I'm all right."

"You say I'm thin." Edmund reached out, finding Peter's shoulder again and then holding onto his upper arm. "I don't have to be able to see to know how much weight you've lost. What have they been doing to you?"

"Just work, Ed. It's not so bad." Peter chuckled softly. "And I promise I eat every bit of food I'm given."

Edmund just stood there, still holding onto him. "Peter–" He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, and then lowered his voice. "What are we going to do? How are we going to get out of here? The girls–"

"Listen to me, Edmund." Peter's voice was low, too, and suddenly fierce. "I don't want you to do anything stupid. Not now that you're– you're–"

Edmund lifted his chin. "Blind. The word is blind."

Suddenly, he was again crushed against Peter's chest.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I hadn't–"

Edmund pulled back fiercely, hoping he was glaring in the right direction. "If you hadn't what, Peter?"

He knew the look that would be on Peter's face, pleading, apologetic, self-condemning, but Peter said nothing.

"What?" Edmund demanded again. "Tell me exactly how any of this is your fault."

"I should have listened when Oreius wanted us to take a guard to Terebinthia. I shouldn't have trusted Arren and Darreth. I should have known–"

"I should have done those things, too, Peter. How is all this your fault any more than mine?"

"I shouldn't have let you–" Peter's hand was again on his cheek. "If I had kept you from going after Mucahit when that man was hurt, if I'd held you back before you–"

"That was my choice. My own stupid choice. How were you to know?"

"I should have done something." Peter's breath hitched. "You're blind, Edmund, and I couldn't stop it. I swear, I'd do anything. I'd–"

"There's nothing you can do, nothing you could have done. It just is the way it is. Do you think you're Aslan?"

Peter said nothing.

"Peter?"

"All right." Peter's voice was barely audible. "All right."

Again there was silence.

"Who was that man?" Edmund asked after a moment.

"Which man?"

"The one you sent for me. Who was he?"

Peter laughed softly. "Nobody. Just someone I got to take the message for me. I had to promise him my supper, too, for doing it."

"You shouldn't have. You need your–"

"I need to talk to you, Ed. I need to–" Peter took hold of Edmund's sleeve, twisting the fabric in his fingers. "I need to know you're all right."

Edmund covered his brother's hand with his own, pressing it hard. "Why didn't you just come yourself?"

"I'm already on the overseer's bad side. Didn't want to make things any worse. Didn't want to make things difficult for you either. It's easier to talk here in the trees where nobody will really notice."

"I suppose." Edmund wished he could see Peter's face, wished he could read his expression just now. "So what _are_ we going to do?"

Peter's hold on his sleeve tightened. "We're going to wait, Ed, until–"

"Until what? Until Narnia is lost? Until the girls are carried off? How long? It's been a month. Are you saying there's never been a chance in all that time for you to get away?"

Peter sighed. "I couldn't. If I escaped, they might– I just couldn't."

"Because of me." Edmund pressed his lips together. "Because I'm blind and can't get out on my own."

"I can't just leave you here, Ed. I don't know what they might do to you if I disappeared."

"But you could. I know if you wanted to, you could leave. When they take you back down to the fields, you could slip out, at night maybe, get down to the docks and stow away on a ship going north." Edmund made his expression as stern as he was able. "Go, Peter. Just go."

"I won't leave you."

Edmund knew that voice, the voice of the High King, the stubborn, immovable, pig-headed, older-brother voice Peter was so fond of using. He wouldn't argue with it just now.

"So why are you on the overseer's bad side?" Edmund asked instead.

"The Tarkaan bought me so I could learn to manage things for him. I guess something Serkan said convinced him I would be good for the job. But the overseer isn't ready to give up his privileges quite yet, so he's made things . . . interesting."

Edmund clenched his jaw. "All the more reason for you to get out of here. You can come for me later. Please, you have to–" Edmund's hold on Peter's arm tightened at the sound of the overseer's voice ordering the slaves back to work. "No, Peter, not yet."

"I have to go. I don't know how you managed it, but that's the longest break we've ever been given."

"Just a minute more. Don't go yet."

"Have to, Eddie." Peter gave him another crushing hug and then touched his forehead to Edmund's. "Hold on. Don't do anything to spoil what you have. I don't want you out in the fields."

"I'd rather–"

"And I'd rather know you're where you are. Until we get home again, I want you safe. Understand?"

Hearing the overseer once more, Edmund clung closer. "Peter."

Peter pressed a quick kiss into his hair. "May the Lion watch over you, O My King, and hold you between His paws."

Then Peter was gone, and Edmund could only turn towards the rustle of his steps in the grass, listening after him.

"And you, O My High King." Edmund bowed his head again, squeezing his eyes closed, trying to steady himself. Oh, Aslan–

"Come on, boy." Ayla grabbed his arm and pulled him back onto the pathway. "Our mistress wishes to leave."

"Wait, I–"

She hissed impatiently. "Have you _still_ not filled the flask? After all this while?'

She snatched it out of his hand and he could hear the light patter of her silk-slippered feet as she hurried to the water's edge. Then she was back again, thrusting the cold, wet flask into his hands and dragging him back to the litter.

"He was standing in the trees idling, O My Mistress," Ayla reported.

"Your pardon, O My Mistress," Edmund said, drying the outside of the flask on his tunic before he handed it to her, knowing there was still a telling unsteadiness in his voice. How amazing that they had happened upon this very bend in the river and that the overseer had called a rest for the slaves just as they had. And Peter– _May the Lion watch over you, O My High King_.

Edmund said nothing more as he followed the litter back up to the palace of the Tarkaan. He merely went inside and sat in his usual place at the window, imagining he was seeing out towards the river where the slaves were yet working.

"Did you enjoy our travels today, my young one?"

Edmund leapt to his feet and made a deep bow in the direction of Lady Cemil's voice. He heard the soft sigh of the silken cushions as she settled into her usual chair, and he went to stand before her.

"Very much, O My Mistress. I hope– Please, My Kind Mistress, might we again walk there? And soon?"

"Perhaps. The overseer tells me the slaves will be working there for some while yet." He could hear the indulgent smile in her voice. "And perhaps the next time I send you for water, you will be more willing to go."

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then he was on his knees at her feet, grasping for her hand. "O My– My Mistress–"

He pressed her soft hand to his cheek, to his lips, tears spilling over it. She had known. She had sent him to the riverside. She had known Peter would be working there. She had made sure the overseer had given the slaves a respite for those few minutes. She had done it for him.

"My lady." The empty Calormene flatteries would not come to him now. "My lady. My lady."

His voice broke again, and she drew his head into her lap, stroking his hair. And, for a little while, he let himself forget he was a King and a warrior and nearly a man full grown. For a little while, he was merely a motherless boy, scared and blind and alone, grateful for a touch of kindness in a harsh world.

**Author's Note: Again, thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for looking this over for me.**

– **WD**


	14. Luke 12:2

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: LUKE 12:2

"Fareeha, take the slave away."

At the Tarkaan's voice, Edmund lifted his head from Lady Cemil's lap and swiftly wiped his eyes. He pushed himself away from her but dared not rise from his knees. Again, he felt the lady's gentle hand smoothing his hair.

"He has done no harm, O My Son," she said. "He is but a child."

"I would speak to you alone, O Most Noble Lady. Fareeha?"

Edmund felt the old nurse's callused hand on his shoulder.

"Come along, boy," she said, her voice low. "Come along. There is work to be done."

Edmund stood, wishing he could say something more, wishing he had been able to truly thank the lady for her kindness in arranging his brief meeting with Peter, but already he was being led away from her.

"The barbarian is not Asil, O My Mother," the Tarkaan said, and Edmund could hear a touch of weary bitterness in his voice.

"I am quite aware, O My Son."

"And I do not think," Hakan added, this time almost wistfully, "you would have grieved so long and so deeply for me."

Already Fareeha was guiding Edmund through the doorway, but before they stepped into the garden, he again heard the lady's gentle voice.

"O My Son, you do not know the price I paid for you."

Then the door shut, and Edmund heard nothing more.

"Come, young one." Fareeha drew him down the path. "Now would be an opportune time to water our lady's jasmine. You have neglected it today."

He stretched out his hand, a little disoriented. "Will you lead me to the well, Fareeha? We left so abruptly, I was unable to count my steps."

"You must pardon me that, Edrret." The nurse patted Edmund's arm and did as he asked. "The Tarkaan was angry, and I did not wish him to turn that anger upon you."

He smiled in her direction. "Thank you."

For a moment he was silent, thinking as he drew a bucket of water from the well.

"Fareeha?"

She clicked her tongue. "I know that tone, boy. What is it you wish to ask that you truly have no business knowing?"

He made his expression as guileless as possible. "Would I ask such things?"

"I am old, child, not stupid."

He ducked his head, trying to hide a grin, certain he had failed, and then he sobered. "What did she mean? The lady said the Tarkaan did not know what price she had paid for him. What did she mean?"

He stood holding the heavy bucket, trying not to let the water slosh out onto his boots, waiting.

"Fareeha?"

"Go and water the jasmine, boy."

He did as he was told, counting his steps to the place where the flowers bloomed, distributing the water as evenly as he was able and then returning to the well for more.

"Fareeha?" he asked again when he realized she hadn't moved from where she was.

"Sit down," she said at last.

He set the empty bucket on the grass and sat next to her on the edge of the well. He didn't say anything. He merely waited there until she finally sighed.

"You are able to keep a confidence, boy?"

Edmund nodded.

"It is our custom here," Fareeha said, "for the girls of the great houses to marry quite young. The Lady Cemil was not even so old as you when she was given as wife to the noble Saif Tarkaan. She wished above all things that she might please her lord and husband and soon was brought to bed with her first child. But that child was female, and the Tarkaan wanted a son. He prayed to the great Tash and was soon told what to do. If the Tarkaan wished to have a son to carry his blood, he must make a sacrifice."

Edmund's breath caught. "His own daughter? He– He–"

He knew about the sacrifices that were made on the altar of the foul Calormene god. _O My Son, you do not know the price I paid for you._

"The offering was made, and the next year the Lady Cemil was brought to bed with another child," Fareeha continued when he was unable to say more. "A strong son, the noble Hakan, and her husband was indeed pleased. But after that the lady found only sorrow. She bore more children, male and female, but few of them were born alive. Those that were lived only a matter of hours. And, as time passed, there were no more children."

Edmund's heart broke for the lady. He knew nothing of a mother's longing, but he was already acquainted with Lady Cemil's tender heart. Still, he could not be the child she so obviously longed for.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It was not until Hakan was a young man, fully twenty, that the lady was again with child," Fareeha continued. "Again she was brought to bed with a son, this one strong and healthy."

"Asil?"

"Yes, Asil. And, truly, he was the delight of her eyes. Of all our eyes." Her voice was suddenly softer and more wistful than he had ever heard it. "But even he was too soon taken away."

"What happened to him?"

"He had always loved climbing things. Even when he was very young. The lady often called him her little monkey."

Edmund had already suspected as much, and he smiled slightly at the fondness in the old woman's tone, but then her tone became flat and empty.

"In the summer of his fifteenth year, he climbed to the top of one of the orange trees, meaning to get the last of the fruit, and somehow lost his hold. He fell, hitting branches all the way down and then landing, broken, on the hard ground below. He was brought back to his mother, and she and I tended him, but he never again woke. On the third day, just at the setting of the sun, he did no more than sigh and then was gone."

For a moment, the old nurse was silent. Then she sighed, too, and Edmund felt her fingers feathering through the hair that fell over his forehead. "You must forgive her if she is reminded of him when she looks on you, child. Your skin is pale, but in many ways you are like him. So like him."

"Fareeha, I can't be–"

"I do not tell you this to satisfy your curiosity or because I am an old talebearer, but so that you might understand some part of the lady's grief and, perhaps, what you have come to mean to her." Fareeha took his chin in her hand, turning his face up, no doubt looking deeply into his eyes. "Do not repay her kindness by grieving her more, do you hear, boy?"

He nodded, not knowing what else to say. He pitied the lady. He would never intentionally hurt her. But he was not her son, only her slave.

And if he could help it, he would not forever be that.

OOOOO

The Robin fluttered his travel-tattered wings and settled on the council table. "News, Your Majesties. News of our Kings."

Lucy glanced at her sister and stood, hardly able to keep her voice steady. "Tell us. Have you found them?"

"Alas, no, dear Queen Lucy. But it may be we have found where they were taken."

"Speak, good Ruddock," Oreius prompted when the Bird paused to catch his breath.

"As you have been told, Your Majesty, the Terebinthian slave trade has grown since Lord Arren took his father's dukedom. It has taken my flock some while, but we finally heard of one of the most notorious of the traders, a Calormene called Serkan, buying a slave there, on the Terebinthian coast, near the time our Kings disappeared. The slave was a tall young man, blue eyed and golden haired, and there was another with him, younger and dark."

"Peter and Edmund," Susan breathed, her full lips trembling, and Lucy clasped her hand.

"Do you know where they were taken, Ruddock?" The younger Queen forced her voice to remain calm and even. "Do you know if they were well?"

"Alas, My Queen, we cannot say for certain if those were our Kings at all. But some of my flock has gone into Calormen, the destination of the ship the two were put aboard. The High King's fair hair makes him easier to trace than King Edmund, especially in such a place. Already there are reports of such a one being sold in the slave market at Tashbaan."

"Was Edmund still with him?" Susan asked. "Are they well?"

The Robin ducked his head, suddenly preening the feathers on his right wing.

"Ruddock?" Oreius demanded.

"Forgive me, General. Your Majesties. After all, we do not know yet, not for certain, that these two are our Kings."

Lucy gripped her sister's hand more tightly. "Please. Whatever you've found out, please tell us."

Again the Robin ducked his head. "The younger of them, the one with dark hair. They said– Forgive me, My Queens, they said he was blind."

The two Queens looked at each other, eyes filled with tears, and then they looked to the General.

"If they are there, Oreius," Lucy said, "how might we get them back?"

"We will have to tread carefully, My Queen," the Centaur said. "We must be certain they are the Kings before we risk war with such an enemy. And, more than that, before we risk their lives by letting the Tisroc know they are in his power."

Susan nodded, calm now. "And we have to know exactly what he and the Terebinthians have planned for Narnia. Arren and Darreth would not have sold our brothers just for the handful of crescents they would have brought."

Lucy drew a deep breath, steadying herself, too. "No. We have to wait until we know more. Ruddock, you still have your flock searching Tashbaan for our Kings?"

"Indeed, My Queen. We will find them or find this golden-haired one that we have heard of so we can be certain he is not King Peter."

"Good." Lucy nodded briefly, fighting tears once again. "And the one they say is blind, find him, too."

**Author's Note: Thanks as always to OldFashionedGirl95 and Laura Andrews for looking this over before I posted. You're always a help!**

– **WD**


	15. Jeremiah 29:11

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: JEREMIAH 29:11

By the time Edmund finished his work in the garden and returned to the house, the Tarkaan was gone. Lady Cemil still sat where he had left her, and Edmund immediately went to kneel at her feet.

"You are well, O My Mistress?"

She laughed lightly. "Of course I am, child. Should I not be?"

"I think the Tarkaan was angry, Most Noble Mistress. I am sorry it was because of me."

"No, truly, not because of you." She ran one hand lightly over his hair. "But it seems Direnc has been very, very foolish."

"Direnc?"

Edmund had never had much contact with the the overseer of the house slaves. He presumed from the man's voice that he was Calormene and most likely middle aged. By the sound of his steps, Edmund surmised he was heavyset and not very tall. From the talk of the other slaves, Edmund knew he was not to be trifled with.

"What has he done?"

"It has come to the notice of the Tarkaan that he has been stealing from the house stores, not only food and wine but linens and tableware and all manner of things, selling them for his own profit. My son merely wished to find out if I had knowledge of this. Sadly, I had suspicions."

"What will happen to Direnc?" Edmund asked, wondering if the penalty for stealing was better or worse than the one for attempted escape .

The lady sighed. "He will be punished, I am certain. Then most likely sold away. The Tarkaan is a just man and not one to be cruel, but he does not suffer betrayal well."

An idea flickered into Edmund's mind. It was true that, if he were down in the fields and away from the city, Peter would be closer to the docks, closer to the ships, closer to escape. But he wouldn't go. He'd already said he wouldn't leave Edmund behind. If they were together again, if Peter didn't have to worry about being separated from him, surely they would find a way out, a way home. Together.

"Who will take Direnc's place?"

"I cannot say, child. I am certain the Tarkaan will see to it."

"Forgive me, O My Wise Mistress, but the noble Tarkaan bought my brother so he might learn to oversee his field slaves. Might he not as well see to those here in the house?"

The lady laughed softly. "He might, young one. He might."

"No doubt my noble master would be displeased to know that he paid so much for my brother only to have him driven as a beast of burden and taught nothing."

"No doubt," she said. "It does seem rather a pity that he should be doing no more than hauling rocks. Any man with a strong back might do as much. But, he would do better to stay where he is than fail in what my son entrusts to him. And he is still rather young. Has he truly the wit to manage a household so large as this?"

Edmund had to struggle to keep the smirk off his face. Peter had governed a family, a castle, an entire kingdom, since he was thirteen.

"I've no doubt of it, Noble Mistress."

Now he felt her soft hand on his cheek.

"And I've no doubt it would please you, my young one, to have him here and not down in the fields."

He leaned into her hand and closed his eyes. "You've been too kind already, Dear Mistress. I dare not ask–"

"I will speak to the Tarkaan."

He seized her hand, kissing it as he had before. "Kind Mistress."

She laughed and mussed his hair. "Do not waste your flattery, boy, until we see if I yet have influence with my noble son."

He caught a shaky breath and then grinned. "Much, I would wager, O Noble Lady. My presence here is witness to that."

"My Lady."

Edmund stood as Ayla hurried into the room.

"My Lady," she said, "the noble Tarkaan has commanded that we slaves all gather in the courtyard at once."

"Direnc?" That was all Lady Cemil said, but Edmund could hear the dread in her voice. "Must you all go?"

"It is the command of our master," Ayla said. "I am sent to bring the boy."

She seized Edmund's wrist, but the lady took hold of his arm, holding him where he was.

"I will answer for him, girl. Go on with the others now. Do as you are told."

Edmund waited, listening.

"Yes, O My Mistress," the girl huffed at last, and then she pattered away

"What are they all summoned for, Noble Mistress?" Edmund asked after he heard the door shut.

"Do not let it trouble you, child." She patted his arm and then released it. "Come. Sit here and tell me another tale of Narnia's talking beasts and the young Kings and Queens who rule them. For a Terebinthian, you have most wondrous knowledge of that place. You have never said why that is."

"I have been a soldier in Narnia, O My Mistress, for the past five years. Since I went there."

He could hear the disbelief in her light laugh. "Five years, young one? Five years ago, you would have been hardly more than a baby."

"I was ten, O My Mistress, when I first went to war. My brother was thirteen."

"And your father and mother allowed such a thing?"

Edmund paused, considering. "We were . . . separated from our parents. By the war. We haven't seen them since."

"Alas, poor motherless child."

He still stood. "But, please, My Mistress, what is it? Why has the Tarkaan commanded the slaves to go to the courtyard?"

Lady Cemil sighed. "Direnc has betrayed his trust, Edrret. Such a thing cannot be tolerated. The others must bear witness to his punishment so they might learn the folly of repeating his wrongs."

Edmund considered for a moment, wondering what this punishment would be. He had heard that some slaves were hanged for crimes such as stealing. If Direnc was to be sold once he was punished, then the Tarkaan did not have anything so final in mind.

"And should I not also learn by this, O Gentle Mistress?" he asked at last, and she took his hand, drawing him to sit beside her.

"No, my young one." She slipped her arm around his shoulders, giving them an affectionate squeeze. "For I know already you would never do anything to merit such punishment."

He bit his lip and then he nodded. "I would never wish to displease you, O My Mistress."

"Now," she said lightly. "To your tale."

With a deep breath, he began the story of Peter, before he was High King, rescuing his sisters from Wolves. Just as he got to the part where the Wolf Maugrim leapt on Peter, screams came from the courtyard. Edmund broke off, wincing.

"Go on, child," the lady urged, her voice soft. "It cannot be helped."

"Direnc–"

"Go on."

Jaw clenched, Edmund continued. It wasn't until Maugrim was dead and Aslan had knighted Peter that those screams stopped.

And Edmund wondered again if the penalty for trying to escape was better or worse than the one for theft and what offenses the Tarkaan would consider worthy of death.

OOOOO

"You there. What is your name?"

Peter started, realizing the Tarkaan was speaking to him, and looked up from where he knelt. It had been so long since anyone had called him anything but "barbarian," "slave" or "boy," he scarcely remembered his own name sometimes. He had to scramble to recall the Terebinthian name he had suggested to Edmund it seemed a lifetime ago.

"P– Perren, O My Master."

"What work do you do?" The Tarkaan crossed his arms over his chest. "Surely the overseer has given you more in hand than merely hauling stones."

"No, My Master."

Hakan gave the overseer a hard glance and then turned again to Peter. "And what did you before you were brought here to the river? When you were yet in the fields?"

"Harvesting and threshing your flax, O Noble Master."

Again the Tarkaan glared at the overseer. "You were instructed to teach him the management of the slaves, Nasir. And you waste him on such things?"

"I thought merely to teach him the work, O Most Merciful Master," the overseer whined.

"Go see to your own work," Hakan ordered, "and be grateful I yet have no one to take your place."

Ordering the rest of the slaves back to work, the overseer slunk away, and the Tarkaan looked Peter over.

"The cur who sold you to me said you were quick to learn and wise beyond your years. Is this so?"

"It is not for me to say, My Master."

Hakan nodded, looking pleased. "As you well know, I am at present without an overseer for the slaves of my household."

"I remember, O Gentle Master."

Peter had been rather surprised when he and the rest of the slaves building the walkway along the riverside had been marched from their work and into the courtyard of the Tarkaan's palace to witness the punishment. Perhaps it was not for their benefit, but for the benefit of the man who had charge of them.

Peter could still hear Direnc's howls and the thud of the rod on fat and muscle as one of the Tarkaan's burly slaves struck him again and again across the back and shoulders. He was not cut down from the post he was bound to until he lost consciousness. By then, several of the young girls were huddled together sniffling loudly, and one of the boys had been sick behind a clump of shrubbery at one side of the courtyard. The rest of the assembled slaves merely watched, faces grim, as the man was dragged into the stable, no doubt to be imprisoned there until he was taken down to the slave market. Peter was glad Edmund hadn't been there. He couldn't have seen the punishment, of course, but he would have heard it.

"I trust you profited by today's lesson," the Tarkaan said, studying his face.

Peter lifted his chin. "I am no thief, My Master."

"And could you, do you think, take Direnc's place and see to my household?"

"So please you, Noble Tarkaan. I was charged by our greatest Lord to watch over His household before I was taken away and sold to Serkan. He was gracious enough to seem pleased with me."

Was He still? Where was He? Why was He still silent after all this time?

Peter swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders, waiting. Finally the Tarkaan gave him a brusque nod.

"Come with me."

**Author's Note: Because I cannot contact you through private messages, I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who leave Guest/Anonymous/Not-Logged-In reviews. They are much appreciated.**

– **WD**


	16. Luke 21:19

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: LUKE 21:19

From the hills overlooking the sea, Peter stood watching the ships that glided in and out of port, their sails cool and white and free. It wouldn't be so hard, given a dark night and a spot of luck, to steal aboard one of them and make his way home to Narnia. He'd thought about it when he had worked in the Tarkaan's fields of flax. He thought about it again now that he was once more here in the fields, this time just to oversee the packing of the supplies that were to be brought up to the house.

But the Tarkaan was a perceptive man. He knew he could trust his new overseer with any task he was given, because Peter knew that, if he were ever to betray his master's trust and put himself out of reach of punishment, Edmund would take that punishment for him. And the Tarkaan had made it clear, too, that his guards were to see that Peter and Edmund never left the palace at the same time unless it was by his specific command and unless they were both in chains. Peter would never step a foot farther from the palace than he was ordered, no matter how far his duties carried him. Edmund was still there.

Peter had never forgotten the hard lesson Serkan had taught him that first day of their captivity. _Be wise, barbarian. Be wise._ And, until Aslan made them a way out, he would be.

"All is in order."

Nasir, once his overseer and now his peer, returned to him the paper listing the items and quantities he required, sneering as he did so but saying nothing more.

Peter merely nodded and slipped the paper back inside his tunic. Then, with another wistful glance towards the sea, he signaled his assistants and began the trek back up to the Tarkaan's palace. As always, the journey was hot and dusty, but he smiled to see one of Lady Cemil's girls waiting for him at the end of it.

"My Lady would speak to you, Master Perren."

"At once."

He gave his assistants instructions for the disposition of the supplies and then hurried off to the lady's chambers. Once before her, he immediately knelt, paying no attention to her attendants.

"Good afternoon, My Gentle Mistress."

She smiled on him as always she did. "My noble son tells me he is quite pleased with the work you have done. He says now he need concern himself with nothing but his duties for the Tisroc (may he live forever)."

"I am honored, Kind Mistress. Is there some way I may serve you now?"

"Indeed, Master Perren." Her dark eyes twinkled. "It seems the door to my garden has come off one of its hinges, and the pin has somehow vanished. Could you have someone look after it?"

Only now did he glance over at Edmund who was standing, all innocence, among her other servants. Peter forced himself not to smile. It was amazing the variety of things his little brother found to put out of order from day to day.

"I will see to it myself, Noble Lady," he said as he always did. "At once."

With a gracious nod of her head, she stood. "Come, girls. Let us go enjoy the coolness of the garden. Edrret, you will stay and assist in the repair."

Edmund bowed. "As pleases you, My Mistress."

In another moment, the brothers were alone.

Peter grinned, taking a step forward. "Ed–"

"What are you doing here?" Edmund hissed. "Why aren't you halfway to Narnia by now? I know you were down at the fields today. Why didn't you just leave?"

Edmund may have been blind, but his dark eyes still flashed with temper.

Peter sighed. "You know why. Do we have to have this conversation every day?"

"Every day you waste an opportunity to get back home."

Peter pulled him into a hug, holding on until Edmund's struggles stopped.

"Be patient, brother mine."

Edmund stood still and then abruptly shoved him away. "Patient? How long have we been here? How long have we been patient?"

"Thirty-seven days."

Edmund blinked, obviously surprised that Peter had also kept count. "Yes. Thirty-seven. You've been overseeing the house for over a week. Hasn't there been something in all that time that's given you any ideas about how we can get out?"

Peter sighed. "Not both of us together. And you know what will happen if I leave and you're still here."

"Nothing would happen to me. The lady wouldn't let it."

"She wouldn't be able to stop the Tarkaan if he were angry enough. You saw what happened to Direnc."

"It would be worth it."

"No." Peter turned his brother's face up to him, smiling slightly at the familiar stubborn frown he saw there. "I'm not doing it, so just forget that much."

The frown deepened, but Edmund didn't reply.

"Aslan will send us a way," Peter assured him, and the frown grew deeper still.

"Maybe He's waiting for us to make a move."

Again Peter sighed. "I would if I could, Ed."

"Maybe the next time you go down to the fields, you could–"

"I already told you, no."

"No, listen." Edmund reached out one hand, searching until he came in contact with Peter's shoulder and then catching hold of his sleeve. "Maybe there's something you could take down with you. A chest or a crate or something like that. I'm not very heavy. I would–"

"You would be missed after about five minutes."

"Not really. Not by anyone but Lady Cemil, and she wouldn't say anything. She's been helping us all this time. Like right now. She could–"

"She would be the first one to have you brought back, Ed. Don't be an idiot. She doesn't mind pretending she doesn't notice things like this now because it makes you happy. And it keeps you here. But if she thought you were going to leave for good . . ." Peter shook his head. "You can forget it."

The hand on his sleeve tightened. "Please, Peter. Narnia, the girls, I can't stand not knowing–"

Again Peter drew his little brother into a hug, and this time Edmund didn't resist.

"I know, Ed. I know. But I've been keeping my ears open. There's no news of Narnia anywhere. Not in the markets or down at the docks or here in the palace. Nothing but our deaths and the seclusion of the Queens. Whatever the Tisroc has in mind, he hasn't done it yet. There'd be talk if he had."

Edmund nodded against his chest, and Peter felt all the tension go out of his shoulders. "All right."

"What I do know is that Arren and Darreth have been in and out of Tashbaan, at the Tisroc's palace, along with most of the Tarkaans."

Edmund tensed again. "How long do you think we have before they move against Narnia?"

"I don't know." Peter let him go. "Your idea about smuggling you out when I go down to the fields or the marketplace or something isn't a bad one. It just has to be when the lady won't miss you for a few hours."

Edmund's lips turned up in a trembling smile. "I can let you know when I hear her dressmaker is supposed to come. She gets something new all the time. And when they're doing fittings, I'm always sent out to work in the garden or in the kitchen or something."

"Okay, then. I'll be watching for something big enough that I'm meant to take down with me. It doesn't happen often, but it may be, Aslan with us, there will be an opportunity soon." Peter ruffled his little brother's hair, pleased to see a spark of eager hope in his expression. "Now, where is that hinge pin you stole?"

OOOOO

It took only a few minutes to replace the hinge pin in the garden door. The brothers spent the rest of the time until sundown as they usually did, coming up with and rejecting ideas for escape and trying to work out what the Tisroc and the Terebinthians had planned. When Lady Cemil and her attendants returned, Peter was dismissed.

Once he had seen to the remainder of his duties for the evening, he made his way towards the quarters he had been given. A shy voice stopped him along the way.

"Master Perren?"

He turned and, seeing the girl, made his expression stern. "Yes, Kiraz?"

"My mistress says one of her chairs has a broken leg."

He nodded. "I will send someone to see to it."

"Forgive me, Master Perren, but my mistress wishes you to attend to it yourself."

He had been working at the Tarkaan's palace for only a few days now, and this was the third time Kiraz had been sent for him. He tried his best to soften his expression. It wasn't the girl's fault.

"Tell the Tarkheena I will attend to it."

The girl bit her lip. "I am to tell you to come at once."

Again Peter nodded, jaw grimly set. "At once."

**Author's Note: I was on my own on this chapter, so if it's really stupid, it's all my fault.**

– **WD**


	17. Leviticus 26:44

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

**IMPORTANT NOTE:**

**This chapter includes an instance of self-harm. If you struggle with this issue, please consider not reading it.**

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: LEVITICUS 26:44

The chamber of the Tarkheena was lush with silks and brocades, ornate and costly, and redolent with perfumes and spice. The thick carpets were doubtless woven by Calormen's most skilled artisans and the furnishings carved by only the finest of her craftsmen. The Tarkheena herself was lounging on a low couch, being fanned by two of her servant girls. When she saw Peter, she stretched luxuriously and sat up, her heavily embroidered satins and gossamer scarves barely covering her shapely form.

He knelt before her, his eyes on the floor, for the third time in little more than a week, knowing well why she had summoned him. "You sent for me, O My Mistress?"

"I did." With a wave, she dismissed her attendants. "Why is it you always hurry from my presence, Master Perren?"

"I have the Tarkaan's business to attend to, Mistress. Kiraz said you wished me to see to a chair that is–"

"A chair?" She smirked. "Any of the slaves can see to such matters."

"Indeed, Mistress." He stood up, bowing. "So if you will pardon me–"

"Still sullen, I see. It does not suit you." She looked him up and down and then fixed her eyes on his lips. " You have a mouth made for smiles and kisses. Do you never use it for either?"

"I am a slave, Mistress. I have little occasion for such things."

"Perhaps it is the company you keep. Slaves could hardly have anything to say to interest such a man as you. You were made for finer things." She stood, moving closer to him. "Much finer things."

"No one was made to be a slave, Mistress."

She laughed softly, her dark eyes aglow. "What strange ideas you have. But you may stay and tell me of them. I enjoy watching you as you speak."

Again her eyes focused on his mouth and he felt his blood heat. She was making it easy, so easy, for him to betray the Tarkaan. To betray her and himself and Aslan and everything he believed. Day after day, she was like a little sand fly, tormenting and needling and persistent, stinging, biting and teasing, unrelenting–

He stepped back, forcing his thoughts to anything but her. "If there is nothing more, Mistress, I pray you excuse me."

She knew the effect she was having on him, and with a sly smile, she made a low pirouette before him, rolling her lithe hips. "Am I not beautiful?"

He fixed his eyes on the wall behind her. "You are, Mistress."

"Am I not desirable?"

"Very."

Still she smiled, and he knew that, even in the dim light, she could see the flush of color in his face. She came closer, eyes fixed on his, and feathered her soft fingers into the hair at the back of his neck.

"Where is your husband, Mistress?"

Her full lips turned down in a pout. "He's gone to the Tisroc (may he live forever) for another of his wretched meetings. Why?" She smirked. "Do you prefer him to me?"

"Yes, O My Mistress, I do."

Startled, she looked him up and down, once again seeming very young and very curious. "Do you not care for women?"

He laughed grimly. "Most assuredly, Mistress."

"But you prefer my husband's company to mine?"

"Should I not, Mistress? He does not seek my destruction."

She frowned. "Destruction?"

"What do you think the Tarkaan would do to me if he found I had betrayed his trust?" He took her by both wrists and put her away from him. "The Tarkaan has put me in charge of his household so he may see to other things himself. The only thing he has withheld from me is you, because you are his wife. Should I betray him?"

"He need never know."

He smiled to himself, knowing there was no use trying to explain to those who did not, who would not understand, what it meant to desire something more than endless, casual pairings, one blurring into another, meaningless, self-seeking, heartless. The path he had chosen, the way Aslan had set out for him, was not an easy one, he could never call it that, but honor and self-control and maturity were always hard won. Now, with this woman-child taunting and teasing him, knowing a misstep here might cost him his life, he thanked Aslan for the restraint he had long made habitual, but he still felt that familiar sting of temptation. He pressed his lips into a hard line.

"I would know."

"You would know more pleasure than you ever have before." She put one hand up to his cheek, making promises with her dusky eyes. "Come."

Again he put her away from him. "I will not. I pray you pardon me, Mistress."

She wrinkled her forehead. "You have someone . . . you belong to?"

He almost laughed at that, and by force of habit he reached up for the pendant that no longer hung around his neck. _His and not my own_. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"You are parted now." She smiled again. "Surely you are not meant to wait forever."

"Being parted does not change the pledge I have made, Mistress. I will not betray my oath."

"But she need never know either."

"All things come to light in time, My Mistress. Your husband loves you. Surely you would not–"

She shrugged. "My husband is old and tiresome."

She seemed old herself for being so young, already jaded and expecting nothing more from her life than empty little intrigues and conquests, nothing more than feeding her appetites at the expense of her heart.

"He loves you, Mistress," Peter said again, his voice gentle.

"Perhaps." Her gaze swept over Peter again, dark and smoldering. "But he does not have sunlit hair and eyes like the sky and sea together."

Once again she leaned into him, pressing her lithe body to his, holding him there with her eyes and her lips and her trembling warmth. The Tarkaan was away, he would never know. Aslan had forgotten him here in this land of Tash. So easy–

"Come," she murmured, tracing her parted lips along the underside of his jaw. "O, the Delight of My Eyes–"

He stepped back so abruptly, she stumbled.

"If you will excuse me, My Mistress."

"Stay." She pursed her lips, eyes flashing. "Do not dare leave."

"If you are displeased with me, Mistress, you need only tell your husband of my disobedience. I am certain the circumstances would interest him greatly."

She glared in defeat, and with a final bow, he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

He walked as quickly as he could, headed towards his quarters. _His and not my own_, he reminded himself. _His and not my own_.

Abruptly, he turned and went out into the garden, letting the night air cool his face. Still he paced, strides swift, waiting for his breath to slow, for his blood to cool. He could still feel those soft hands on his face, in his hair. _He need never know_.

Perhaps the Tarkaan would never know, but there was One who would. One who would always know.

"Aslan, please," he murmured. "I'm trying. I'm trying so hard. Why have You left us here? Where are You?"

He cursed Arren for taking away his pendant, for taking away the only tangible reminder of his covenant with the great Lion. He needed it. He needed something to hold onto, something to remind him, something to bolster his weakening resistence. Those three little runes, only the Centaur prophets knew what ancient language they represented. Peter only knew their meaning. But it seemed so distant now, so far away in this land of Tash.

_His and not my own._

He paced still, still drawing hard breaths, still struggling against himself. If Aslan had abandoned him, if Aslan had abandoned them all, what was the use in keeping faith with Him?

Peter stalked over to the well, drawing a bucket of cool water, splashing it on his neck and face, washing the back of his hair, his cheek, the underside of his jaw. Aslan was with him. Aslan was with him. Even when he couldn't see Him, He was always with him.

"I will not forget," he said, his words growled out from between gritted teeth. "You cannot take Him from me, and I will not give Him up."

There had to be some way, some way he could remember, some way that couldn't be taken from him. _His and not my own. _Three little runes. The memory of them was clear still. He knew how each line went. The first just two slightly curved lines crossed at the top end, almost like a wishbone. Then a straight line with a small comma-like mark near its top. Then what looked like a capital L with a dot in the bend. Six small marks in all.

He didn't know exactly which one meant what. He always assumed they represented the words "His," "not" and "mine." But he didn't know for sure. It didn't matter. He needed them. He needed something he could see and touch. Something that couldn't ever be taken from him.

He needed this.

He needed something.

Before he could change his mind, he stole into the kitchen and found a small paring knife. It was sharp. He'd just ordered all the knives to be sharpened.

He held the little blade in the low-banked hearth fire, letting it heat well. Then he thrust it into the water bucket, cooling it and cleaning it.

Afterwards, he sat down and spread out a clean white cloth on the table and lay his left arm on it. He pushed up his sleeve to the elbow, exposing the underside of his forearm. The skin was unmarked, pale in the firelight, and the hand that held the knife trembled as he considered. He couldn't forget. He wouldn't forget. He wouldn't let this place make him into someone he was not. _His and not my own_. He would remember.

He gritted his teeth and drew the point of the knife across his quivering flesh, forcing it deep enough to leave a scar. Two slightly curved lines crossed at the top end, almost like a wishbone. The blood immediately rushed up from the wound, deep and red, trickling in two separate lines down his arm. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he didn't make a sound.

Next to those, when his hand was steady again, he cut a straight line with a small comma-like mark near its top. _Deep_, he reminded himself. _Permanent_. Another trickle of red joined the first two, and he sat drawing half-choked breaths, willing himself to press on.

Last, he cut two lines of what looked like a capital L and added a dot in the bend. Six small marks in all. Deep. Permanent.

_His and not my own._

They could not take this from him. He would not forget.

**Author's Note: I struggled for a long time about whether or not I should have Peter do what he just did. It is NOT something I recommend, and it is certainly NOT something that Aslan would want anyone to do or tell anyone to do. But I hope I made Peter's reason for doing it clear. If not, I'll be happy to discuss it in PMs with anyone.**

**Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for her help and support. Sorry this is so grim.**

– **WD**


	18. 1 Corinthians 6:19 & 20

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: 1 CORINTHIANS 6:19-20

Peter stumbled through the darkness, feeling his way through the trees, hearing the rush of water beside him. Was that Narnia's Great River? The Winding Arrow? The river that flowed through Tashbaan? He didn't know.

He knew he had to find his way out of this darkness. He had to find Lucy and Susan and Edmund. _I can't– I can't see you_. He remembered his little brother's terrified words and knew he, too, was lost in darkness somewhere. Peter had to find him. He had to find all of them. He had to get free.

"Lucy?" He stumbled into a tree, bruising his shoulder, scraping his hands as he pushed himself away and hurried on. "Susan? Can you hear me? Edmund?"

Behind him, he heard a stirring in the trees, heavy steps thudding in the grass, a rumbling behind him, closer and closer, moist breaths coming harder and faster, hot now against the back of his neck. He walked more swiftly, half running, ducking the low branches that slapped his arms and shoulders and stung his face.

He glanced back, seeing only a dark shape in the already dark night, coming faster and yet faster. Heart racing, he started to run and almost immediately tripped, plunging headlong into the loamy earth. At once, the creature was upon him. Could it be–

"Aslan?"

He cried out, feeling razor-like claws rip into his forearm, feeling blood run hot and wet over his skin and pool in his hand.

"Aslan, please, don't–"

Tears streaming down his cheeks, he turned over to face the creature.

"Aslan–"

In pure terror, he scrambled backwards, breath coming hard and fast. This wasn't the Great Lion. It was the terrible demon god Tash, his vulture's head and four scaly arms unmistakable as he loomed over his prey, claws still deep in Peter's flesh, eyes red with the lust for more blood.

Peter pulled away and covered his face with both arms, curling in on himself. "Aslan!"

He woke with a gasp.

Morning. It was morning.

He was in his own quarters, sprawled across the bed, still fully dressed. His left arm was stretched protectively away from his body, the cuts on its underside throbbing with each beat of his pulse.

He remembered the razor-sharp knife falling from his trembling fingers once he had made the last of the marks, falling, dark with his blood, onto the once-white cloth he had spread out. He remembered laying his head on the table, sinking his teeth into his right wrist, drawing hissing breaths until the searing pain eased. And then he had closed his eyes and wept, because Aslan was still not there.

_His and not my own. _

He studied those cuts now, stark in the gray morning light, suddenly realizing the grim irony of what he had done.

OOOOO

"You sent for me, O My Mistress?"

"Yes, Master Perren."

Edmund listened with growing impatience as the Lady Cemil and Peter went through their usual ritual. He had something he needed to talk to his brother about, and it wouldn't wait.

"Edrret tells me he can no longer draw water for my garden because the bucket has come loose from the rope and fallen into the well." As usual, Edmund could hear the smile in the lady's voice. "Can you see that it is brought up again and this time tied more securely?"

"At once, My Gentle Mistress," Peter said.

"Go along with him, Edrret." The lady took Edmund's arm and urged him towards the garden door. "And see you tend to the jasmine while you are there. Perhaps your brother will help you."

Edmund nodded, hiding a smile. "Yes, My Mistress."

He quickly found Peter's arm and urged him outside. Once they reached the well, he turned, eager to tell his news.

"Peter–"

"How are you, Ed?"

Edmund's smile faded. There was something in Peter's voice that seemed off.

"What's wrong?"

Peter's soft laugh sounded hollow and somehow forced. "Nothing. What could be wrong?"

Edmund wished he could see his brother's face, wished he could look into his eyes and read his thoughts. Instead he reached out and grabbed his arm. "Peter–"

Peter flinched, and Edmund released him.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"It's nothing. Never mind."

Still something in Peter's voice didn't seem right. He was never any good at hiding things.

"Peter, what is it?"

"I just . . . I cut myself. It's nothing."

Edmund exhaled, glad it was only that. "Be more careful next time, will you?"

"Yeah, sure."

Edmund frowned, brows drawn together. He needed to see his brother's face. Peter was keeping something from him. Edmund could always tell. He reached out and found Peter's shoulder and then his arm.

"Peter–"

"Did you figure anything out, Ed?" Peter's voice was low and unsteady. "Do you know when the lady will have her dressmaker visit next?"

"I think I have an idea, but what's wrong? I know there's something. Tell me."

"It– it doesn't matter."

Edmund moved his hand down to Peter's forearm, stopping again when he felt him wince.

"Tell me what happened, Peter. The truth."

Peter pulled away from him. "I told you the truth. I just cut myself. Leave it alone."

"How did you cut yourself. What were you doing?"

Peter didn't say anything, and Edmund took two handfuls of his shirt front. "Peter."

"Tell me your idea. We– we need to go. Soon."

"What did you do?" Edmund demanded. "Peter, what did you do?"

"Last night, I– I needed– Our pendants– I needed something to remind me that Aslan hasn't forgotten us. That He won't leave us here forever. That we belong to Him."

"What happened last night?"

Peter had been the one telling him all along to be patient, to wait for Aslan to make them a way out. What had changed?

"Peter?"

"The runes on our pendants. I needed to remember. I needed a reminder they couldn't take away from me. Ed, I–"

"Peter, what did you do?"

Edmund grabbed Peter's arm again, pushing up his sleeve, running his fingers along the smooth skin until he felt some scabbed-over places on the underside of his forearm.

"This wasn't an accident, was it."

"Edmund, I needed–"

"So you cut yourself?" As gently as he was able, as carefully as his anger would let him, Edmund traced his finger over the cuts, over the too-warm skin around them. He remembered the lines of those runes as clearly as he remembered the lines of his brother's face. "You deliberately cut yourself?"

Peter made him no answer. He was silent except for the occasional hitch in his breath.

"Bloody idiot," Edmund spat. "What do you think Aslan would say?"

"I don't– I don't know."

"Blast it, Peter, you _do_ know! He'd never want you to do something like that!"

Peter only drew a heavy breath.

"And did it make anything better?" Edmund pressed.

"I just– I needed to remember."

"You needed to remember? You did something Aslan would never have wanted you to do so you'd be reminded to do only what He would want you to do? That's . . . I don't even know what that is, Peter."

He knew as surely as if he could see him that Peter was standing there with his head down and his eyes on his boots. Edmund finally reached up, touching his cheek, finding it wet.

"For Aslan's sake, Peter. For mine. Please."

"I won't do it again," Peter murmured. "I just–"

He never finished the thought, but really it wasn't necessary. Edmund already knew. He needed out. He needed home. They both did.

Edmund slipped his hand to Peter's shoulder. "I think I have some good news."

"You have a plan?" Peter asked, his voice brighter, and Edmund nodded.

"First off, Lady Cemil's dressmaker will be here day after tomorrow, probably in the middle of the morning."

"Okay. And?"

"Have you ever noticed the large carpet in the middle of her chamber? I can't tell you what color it is, but I know by the feel of it it's very expensive. For the past day or so, I've been pulling threads out of one corner, enough so it will have to be taken down to the weaver to be repaired."

He smiled when he heard Peter's soft chuckle.

"It's brilliant, Ed. Brave and clever and sneaky."

"Here's the important thing." Edmund took hold of Peter's sleeve. "Tomorrow I'll have to come up with something else for you to see to in her chamber so she thinks we plan nothing more than our usual talk. Then you'll have to bring the carpet to her attention, as if it's something you've just noticed on your own. All right?"

"Yes. That's perfect."

"Tell her you'll take the carpet and put it on the cart that night so it will be ready for you to take down with you to the marketplace the next morning. When she sends me into the garden to work while she has her dressmaker with her, I'll meet you in the stable. You have to make sure nobody's in there that morning, okay?"

"Right."

Edmund's lips trembled into a smile. "After that, it's Narnia and the north."

OOOOO

Peter's next visit to the chamber of the Lady Cemil went just as planned. Edmund had loosened the leg on one of the small tables beside her reclining couch so it wobbled alarmingly, and she, with an indulgent smile, asked Peter if he would see to it. Then, and surely this was a miracle from Aslan, she pointed to the unraveled place in the rug.

"And I see my lovely carpet is in need of mending. Is this also something you can do for me, Master Perren?"

Peter bowed slightly, forcing himself not to smile as he knelt down to examine the place. "I fear it will have to be taken up and carried down to the weaver, Kind Mistress. If it is not seen to at once, it may come apart entirely."

"When can you take it?"

"I will have it seen to tonight, Mistress, if it pleases you, so I can take it on the cart when I go down to the market in the morning."

With the help of two of his assistants, Peter had the carpet rolled up and loaded on the cart. All he had to do now was be patient until tomorrow morning, then he and Edmund would have their chance. Aslan with them, they would soon be heading back to Narnia.

There was a fresh lightness in his step as he walked back towards his quarters on the other side of the palace, and it was hard to keep the smile off his face. Tomorrow. After so long, they would have their chance tomorrow.

His smile faded when he saw someone standing at the corridor that led to the chamber of the Tarkheena. Doubtless it was Kiraz, again sent to summon him. He tried to hurry past, but was forced to stop when the lithe figure stepped in front of him.

It was the Tarkheena herself.

**Author's Note: Thanks, as always, to OldFashionedGirl95 for pre-reading and general encouragement. They are always most welcome.**

– **WD**


	19. Ecclesiastes 7:26

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER NINETEEN: ECCLESIASTES 7:26

The Tarkheena came towards Peter, soft hands reaching out. "Master Perren."

"Mistress."

He reluctantly knelt, his eyes fixed on the marble floor as he waited for her command. He had already had Lady Cemil's carpet rolled up and put on the cart. Tomorrow, once she was occupied with her dressmaker, Edmund would slip into the stable. Tall and slender as he was, he could easily be rolled into that carpet and carried down to the marketplace and never be noticed. They would have their chance at escape tomorrow, their chance at Narnia and home, and Peter was not going to let the Tarkheena spoil that for them.

Since their last encounter, she had twice sent slaves to bid Peter to come to her, but he had returned word as respectfully as he was able that he would not. Now he expected her to once again make a request that he would not grant. But she said nothing, and finally he looked up at her.

"Is there something you wish, Mistress?"

Her dark eyes were wide and her breath was a little too fast and airy.

"Mistress?"

Still she reached her hands towards him, and he noticed they were trembling. He realized this was the first time he had ever seen her outside of her chamber without her servants and without her guard.

"Tarkheena, where are your girls? Kiraz and the others?"

"They went out into the garden because the house was so terribly warm."

"And you did not accompany them, Mistress?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. What was she up to?

"I just– just wanted to sleep," she breathed, her voice as unsteady as her hands.

"And your guard, Tarkheena?"

"I sent them– sent them for Eser, the physician. I need– need—"

Without warning, her eyes closed and she began to sink towards the floor. He was instantly on his feet, catching her up in his arms.

"Mistress?" He jostled her, hoping she would stir. "Tarkheena?"

She did not respond, and he looked around the strangely empty corridor. Where was everyone? The Tarkheena's head was nestled against his shoulder and her dark lashes lay against her dusky cheeks. It was impossible for him to tell whether or not she was really ill. Even if she were shamming, he couldn't leave her out here in a heap on the floor.

Jaw clenched, he strode down the hallway to her chamber door. It was already open, so he carried her inside and knelt down beside the lushly appointed bed, meaning to leave her in the nest of satins and silks and go himself for the physician. Before he could pull away from her, her arms snaked around his neck.

"Stay," she breathed, her lips warm and moist against his throat. "My Golden One, stay."

He tried to stand, but she merely clung more tightly, nuzzling and kissing, caressing with her lips. Earlier, he had been tempted by her overtures. Now the heat in his blood was not desire but raw fury. He was a King of Narnia, and dare she think he was merely a trinket to be bought and used until she tired of him?

"Stay," she urged as he tried to pull away from her, clutching his arm right where those runes were cut, making them burn afresh, strengthening his resolve.

"Where is your husband, Mistress?" he asked, his mouth in a hard line, his voice taut and unyielding. He couldn't let her upset things now. Not when he and Edmund would have their chance to escape tomorrow.

"He's gone down to the fields for the day." She traced her lips along his jaw and across his chin. "He'll not return until well after night has fallen. You needn't fear."

"I needn't fear him, Mistress, because I will not betray him. I will not betray my own oath."

He took her roughly by both wrists and put her away from him, standing as he did.

Her cheeks were red with passion and with anger as she lay looking up at him, nestled in silk and satin, her breathless laugh mocking. "I see you do not care for women after all."

He smiled humorlessly. "I do, Mistress. I merely do not care for spoilt children."

Dark eyes flashing, she lunged up at him and cracked her palm across his cheek. Then she flung herself against him, twining her lithe arms once again around his neck, crushing her mouth against his.

"Lie with me," she breathed against his lips, the fingers of both hands twisted into his hair as she tried to drag him down with her, her hold tightening when he tried to free himself. "Lie with me."

Before he could stop her, she slid her hands to his shirt and tore it open, dragging it off his shoulders. He pulled back, bound where he was by the remains of the garment.

"Mistress–"

"Stay."

She pulled him once again towards the bed, and he was forced to twist away from her, slipping his arms out of his sleeves, leaving the torn shirt in her grasp.

"Stay!"

He bolted out of the chamber, her shrill screams tearing the air behind him.

Then the empty hallway was suddenly filled with people. The Tarkheena's servant girls flooded in from the garden, eyes wide to see him running from her room only half dressed. Her guards, two well-muscled Calormenes, immediately seized him, dragging him to his knees as the Tarkheena herself staggered into the corridor, eyes wide with terror, lush hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders, clothing disheveled. His shirt was still clutched in her hands.

"Do you see?" she cried as other slaves gathered from various parts of the palace. "All of you, do you see? This barbarian has dared insult his master, your master and mine, the great Tarkaan, with this outrage. If I had not cried out, what might he have done?"

Peter merely knelt there, jaw clenched, chest heaving, knowing nothing he could say now would change anything. He had done his best to do what was right, and this was his reward? And when the Tarkaan came back from the fields–

"The Tarkaan," someone gasped, and the slaves began murmuring among themselves as Hakan strode into the corridor, dark eyes burning.

"What is this?" he demanded, his eyes going from his wife to Peter and back again. "Yesim?"

The Tarkheena rushed into his arms, hysterical and weeping.

"Shh, quiet now." He touched his lips to her hair, holding her close. "Tell me, My Gazelle, tell me what has happened."

"The barbarian you brought to us, he saw that you were not here, that there was no one nearby, and came in to me to– to–" She hid her face against his chest, pressing close into his embrace, sobbing incoherently. "I cried out as loudly as I was able, O My Husband, and he ran away and left his garment with me."

She pressed the torn shirt into her husband's hands, and the Tarkaan took it from her, glaring at Peter over her head. Then he held her close again, once more kissing her hair.

"Go now, Yesim. Take your girls and return to your chamber. I will be with you soon."

"I am afraid, O My Husband!" She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I am afraid without you. He– he hurt me."

She showed him her bruised wrists, and he kissed them tenderly.

"Go," he said, his voice low and gentle. "Your guard will be outside your door, and I will be with you soon." He looked at the rest of the slaves gathered there. "All of you, to your work. At once!"

The slaves immediately dispersed. Head down and supported by two of her servant girls, the Tarkheena returned to her chamber.

"Put the barbarian in chains," Hakan ordered, and the guards did as they were told, shackling Peter's ankles and wrists as he still knelt at the Tarkaan's feet.

For a long time, Hakan merely paced, his steps heavy against the unyielding marble of the floor. Finally he stood over Peter, arms crossed, seething with rage.

"Speak, Dog of an Infidel. Did you dare lay hands on my wife?"

Peter lifted his head, meeting the Calormene's eyes. "I did, O My Master."

The man drew back his hand, but Peter didn't flinch.

"But only to put her away from me."

Hakan's eyes blazed. "And did you dare try to force her?"

"I did not, O My Master. It was she who wished to entice me."

Now the Tarkaan did strike him, four hard blows across the face, and then both of them were still, panting with ill-contained fury.

"You dare say such things to my very face? About that innocent creature? I should kill you here with my own hands."

_Be wise, barbarian. Be wise. _Peter felt the blood trickle from his nose onto his lips, and he licked it away. _Be wise._

"I told you before, My Master, I am no thief. That includes the stealing of wives."

"Liar."

Hakan struck him twice more, ringing blows that made his head spin. Even in chains, Peter knew he could best this man. The Tarkaan was growing soft and edging towards middle age. Peter was not even half as old, he was certain, but he was in his prime, and he had trained for battle almost every day for the past five years. But he would be wise.

Breaths slowing, he lowered his head, saying nothing. Somehow, he would get through this. And he and Edmund would still find a way out. _Oh, Aslan– _

"Take him," the Tarkaan commanded at last. "Take him to the courtyard. And gather all the slaves to witness the punishment."

**Author's Note: Gentle reader, if you're enjoying this story and want it to continue, please let me know. Your comments mean so much. Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for looking this over. **

– **WD**


	20. Jeremiah 8:15

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY: JEREMIAH 8:15

The afternoon sun was beginning to sink when Edmund returned to the Tarkaan's palace with the Lady Cemil and several of her servant girls. It had been difficult for him to pretend this was merely another walk, merely another stroll along the riverside, merely another day as the lady's page. Peter had already taken her carpet and put it on the cart to be taken down to the weaver. Tomorrow he and Edmund would make their escape. Tomorrow, somehow, they would be on their way back to sweet Narnia, back to their sisters, back home.

Edmund had tried to be especially kind and attentive to Lady Cemil this afternoon. The last afternoon, Aslan with them, before he was forced to break the lady's tender heart and leave her behind. He was grateful to her, so grateful, for what she had done for him and for Peter. He would repay her one day, he had already pledged that before Aslan, but now he had to take his opportunity, his and Peter's. He had to go.

This was the last afternoon, soon the last evening, and he considered how to make it pleasant for her.

"Shall I tell you another tale of Narnia, Noble Lady?"

"That would be most welcome, child."

He could hear the surprise and delight in her voice. Usually she had to coax him into such tales. With a smile, he sat beside her, and he could hear the rustle of silks as several of her girls gathered around, eager to listen as well.

"It was the night before the Battle of Beruna, and the young girl who would one day be crowned as Narnia's Valiant Queen lay in her tent, restless and unable to sleep. Hearing something stirring outside, she sat up and called to her sister, 'Susan–'"

He broke off, hearing the light patter of feet.

"My Mistress! My Mistress!"

The girl's voice wasn't familiar to Edmund, but he assumed she was one of the slaves from another part of the house.

Lady Cemil's hold on his arm tightened. "What is it, Kiraz?"

"The Mighty Tarkaan has summoned all of the slaves to the courtyard. We are again to witness punishment."

Edmund frowned. Hadn't they all learned from Direnc's very-recent example?

"What has happened?" the lady asked.

"The Tarkheena," the girl blurted out. "She claims that–"

"Wait!" Lady Cemil cried. "Wait."

She released Edmund's arm, and he heard her move closer to the girl. They spoke for a moment, their voices only a low murmur, and then the lady clapped her hands.

"All of you, go into the courtyard. It is the command of the Tarkaan."

Steeling himself, Edmund began to follow after the others, but Lady Cemil stopped him.

"Stay with me, Edrret. You need not witness this."

He smiled faintly. Again she wished to spare him, and truly he did not look forward to hearing someone else beaten into unconsciousness.

"Please, My Mistress, what has happened? Who is being punished?"

She slipped her arm around him and pulled him close. "Do not let it trouble you, child. Come, let us go alongside the river and walk among the trees."

Frowning, he pulled away from her. "We've just come from walking, Mistress."

"For my sake, child. I do not care to hear–"

"Of course, Mistress."

He took her arm again, understanding, and quickly calculated how many steps would take him through the house and back out to the path that led through the garden and down to the river, out of hearing of the poor fool who had been stupid enough to call down the wrath of the Tarkaan.

"What did he do, Mistress?" he asked once they were nearly to the end of the long corridor that led to the garden, and the lady stopped beside him.

"He was foolish, child. Quite foolish."

"So it seems, My Mistress, but what did he do?"

Lady Cemil sighed. "Come along now. Truly it is of no importance."

Edmund set his jaw. What wasn't she telling him? "What has happened?"

"It is not–"

"Mistress, please."

She sighed, and her hold on his arm tightened. "My noble son returned to find his Tarkheena weeping and frightened and claiming one of the slaves had attempted to dishonor her."

Edmund frowned. Who would be so foolish as to risk as much as his life for this woman? And Lady Cemil said she had claimed someone had tried to dishonor her. Was the claim true or false?

"Come now,"she urged, tugging him along. "I do not wish to hear this punishment given. Please, Edrret, come now."

"But, Mistress, who–?"

The words caught in his throat, everything inside him convulsed when he heard a low cry from the direction of the courtyard. Peter. It was Peter! Edmund lunged towards the sound, biting back his own cries. Peter!

"Wait, child! No!"

The lady tried to hold him back, but he twisted away from her, stumbling over a footstool and then scrambling to his feet. He caught a painful breath when he heard another cry, knowing Peter would be doing his best to hold back, knowing the pain must be intense if he was making any sound at all.

The lady caught his arm again, half-panicked pleading in her voice. "Edrret, you mustn't–"

He wrenched away from her. "No!"

"Edrret!"

Tears burned his eyes as the cries grew harsher and more frequent, and he stumbled forward again, biting his lips to keep from crying out himself. Peter. Peter!

Lady Cemil was behind him, breathless, still calling for him to stop, to come back to her. "It cannot be helped, child. Please."

Edmund staggered against a chair and held onto it, panting. Where was he? How many steps now? Which way? How far to the courtyard? To Peter?

"No. Edrret. Stop. You will only make things worse for you both. There is nothing you can do."

He found the wall once more, still staggering away from her, falling again, and again her hands were on him, trying to calm, trying to soothe.

"Shh, shh–"

He fought away from her once more, darting into the black emptiness around him, running until he slammed into the corner of a table, sending it and himself to the floor with a crash of glass and pottery. He scrambled up, hardly noticing the searing pain in his palms and knees as the broken shards razored into his flesh.

"Edrret!"

He bolted away from her, again trying to deduce where he was. Another cry came from his left, and he turned towards it, his hands slick with blood now as he felt along the wall. Then he felt only empty air and stumbled into the corridor that led to the courtyard. He had to be close now, but Peter's cries were softer, weaker, more broken. Peter. Peter.

Again the lady was beside him, clutching at his shirt, trying to take his hands. "Edrret, Edrret–"

He shoved her away, still stumbling forward. He knew how many steps now. He knew he was almost to the door. His stomach clenched. Now he could hear the blows, the sickening thud of the rod on flesh. He could as good as see it as it came down on Peter's bare back and shoulders, bruising, cutting, drawing blood. Peter. Peter!

He reached the door and then was still. The courtyard was silent now. The blows had stopped.

"Learn well, slaves, from what you have seen here today." That was the Tarkaan's voice, low and grim. "Now return to your work."

"It is over now," the lady soothed, taking Edmund by his wrists. "Child, your hands–"

He turned to her at last, his back against the door, his body trembling, hardly able to stand now. "Please, Mistress, let me go."

"Edrret, child–"

"Let me go to him."

She touched her scented handkerchief to his face, blotting the tears he only now realized were there, and then she pressed his lacerated hands around it.

"Shh, shh."

"I beg you, Mistress, let me go." His chest heaved with sobs. "Let me go."

"They will have taken him away now, child. It is done."

"Where– where will they have taken him? Please, Mistress, where?"

She sighed. "To the stable, no doubt. Until he is taken away to be sold again."

"No!" Again he fought to push her away, desperate to open the door and get out into the courtyard, into the stable. "Please, Mistress. Please."

"Wait. Wait. Edrret, listen. I will help you, but you must calm yourself. Listen."

He clutched the blood-soaked cloth in his throbbing hands, his breath rasping loudly in his own ears. Peter. Peter.

"Listen, child. I will try to find a way for you to see him."

His breath hitched, and he nodded rapidly. "Please. Please."

"Shh. Listen. If you will be patient just a brief while, I will see if I can bribe the stablemaster to let you in to see him. I will send Fareeha with you to tend to his wounds."

He sank down to his knees before her, pressing his face against her skirts, staining the rich silks with tears and blood. She knelt down beside him, taking him into her arms, her lips cool against his forehead, against his hot cheeks.

"Calm yourself now, child. I will do what I am able, but you must calm yourself. It will not be safe to go yet. Not until night has fallen."

He tried to get to his feet, but she held him there.

"Mistress–"

"No. Shh. It will not be long now. Perhaps half an hour. Time enough to tend your own wounds and change your shirt."

"That doesn't matter. I just need to see–"

"Hasn't he enough pain just now, child? Would it comfort him to see you, too, are torn and bloodied?"

He knelt there for a long moment, his breathing slowing, at last calming, and finally he nodded. "Y-yes, Mistress."

Once again, she kissed his forehead, and then she helped him to his feet. "Come now."

She led him back to her chamber, calling for Fareeha once they were inside. She sent two of her girls to clean up the debris from the table Edmund had upset, and then she helped the old nurse pick fragments of glass from his cuts and then wash and bind the wounds.

Edmund sat tense and flinching as they did, his body trembling. He had to get to Peter. Had to. Had to. What had they done to him? Aslan, please don't let them have killed him.

He remembered now what Lady Cemil had said about the Tarkheena. _One of the slaves had attempted to dishonor her._ No, not Peter. It couldn't have been Peter. It could never have been Peter. Aslan. Aslan.

At last they told him it was night. Fareeha gathered up her ointments and medicines and bandages and led Edmund out across the courtyard and into the stable.

"It would please the Lady Cemil for you to have this," she told the stablemaster, and Edmund heard the clink of coins.

With swift thanks, the stablemaster stole away, and Fareeha led Edmund past the snuffling horses to the back of the stable.

"Here, boy," she said, stopping at last, and she put his hand against the rough wall. "He is here."

Edmund felt his way forward and then dropped to his knees in the straw.

"Peter?"

**Author's Note: Many thanks to my readers and reviewers It means so much to have your comments and encouragement!**

– **WD**


	21. 1 Peter 2:20

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: 1 PETER 2:20

Edmund groped in the rough straw that covered the stable floor until he found a motionless, too-warm hand. _Oh, Peter_. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to say the name aloud. He had said it when he first knelt here, but by then Fareeha was preparing her bandages and ointments. She couldn't have heard. Even if she had, his voice had been too low and unsteady to really be clear. But Peter–

Edmund kept hold of that hand with one of his own. With the other, he felt along Peter's arm to his shoulder, bare and bloodied. He could tell that much just by touch, but he couldn't see. He couldn't see how badly bruised and cut Peter was. He couldn't see whether or not he was awake or if he was pale with shock and loss of blood.

He could tell Peter was lying on his stomach, his head turned to one side, his eyes closed. He could feel the thready pulse at his throat. His skin was feverish, and his breathing was ragged, slow and harsh. _Peter. Peter_.

Fareeha was still bustling around with her medicines, so Edmund leaned close to his ear.

"Peter?"

No response.

"Peter," he whispered a little louder, squeezing the hand he held.

Peter came to with a jerk and then moaned softly, his breath a little quicker now. "Edmu–"

Edmund pressed his hand over Peter's mouth. "Yes, it's me. Edrret."

"Edrret."

Peter nodded slightly, slurring the word, tightening his hold, making Edmund flinch from the pain of his own cuts. Then Edmund felt Peter running his fingers clumsily over the bandage on his hand.

"Wh–what happened? How'd you . . ."

Edmund managed a tight smile. "I cut myself. It's nothing."

"Ed, how–"

"He was a fool," Fareeha said, straw rustling as she came up beside them. "Just as you were, Master Perren."

"Ed, you shouldn't–"

Whatever else Peter meant to say ended in a sharp gasp. Edmund could smell something strong now, something that made his eyes sting, and knew she must be applying one of her ointments to Peter's wounds. _Peter. Peter._

"How bad is it?"

Edmund's voice shook as Peter writhed in the straw, and he bit back a low cry as the hand in his convulsed, tightening against his own still-fresh injuries.

"They made a fine job of it this time," the old nurse clucked as she fussed over her patient. "May as well have used a whip. No, boy, lie still now. Edrret, hold him still, if you are able."

Edmund drew Peter's head into his lap and held as tightly to Peter's hands as he could, flinching when Peter did, wanting to cry out when Peter did, knowing Fareeha had to work the salve into each deep wound so none of them would become infected. It seemed an eternity before she had Edmund help her sit Peter up so she could wash his face and then swathe his body in bandages. By the time she was finished, Peter was slumped, sweating and trembling, against Edmund's shoulder.

"The rest," Fareeha said, "only time will heal."

Edmund heard her moving around, and then she took his hand and put it down beside him.

"Here is a blanket. Come now. Help me make him comfortable."

She eased Peter onto his stomach once again with his head on Edmund's lap. Then she began packing up her things.

"I've left a shirt that should fit him. Best to not put it on until the salve has dried. There is a bucket of water in the corner of the stall. See he drinks as much as possible. Try to keep him cool."

Edmund nodded. "I will."

She pressed his hands around a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Here is some meat and bread. If he can eat some of it, it will do him good."

Again, Edmund nodded, laying the bundle in the straw nearby.

"It will do you good, too, boy."

He managed a bit of a smile. "All right."

"I suppose you'll want to stay out here the night?"

Edmund held Peter a little closer and set his mouth in a determined line.

"The lady will be expecting me to bring you back inside, boy."

"Fareeha, please–"

She sighed heavily. "I will return for you before daylight. But if you are found here, I cannot answer for what might happen to you both. The Tarkaan is as angry as ever I have seen him."

The Tarkheena. _One of the slaves had attempted to dishonor her._

"I will be careful." Edmund felt for her hand. "Thank you."

She cupped his cheek in one hand. "Take care, child."

In another moment, she was gone. Edmund sat there in the straw, blotting the sweat from his brother's face with the cloth the old nurse had left with him.

"Peter," he murmured, careful to keep his voice low. "How are you feeling?"

Peter made him no answer, but Edmund could feel him shaking his head.

"Peter?"

"It's all ruined. We were– We were going home. Tomorrow. Now it's ruined. Edmund."

Edmund felt his throat tighten at the brokenness in his brother's voice. "It's all right. It's all right."

"Tomorrow."

"We'll think of something else." Edmund stroked his damp hair. "Don't worry."

"No. We can't. It's too late. Tomorrow, they'll take me to–"

"No." Edmund pulled him a little closer. "They won't. They can't."

"They will. Edmund, you know they will. Oh, Aslan."

"Shh. Tell me what happened."

"Not true," Peter murmured. "Not true."

"What is it, Peter? What's not true?"

He heard Peter lick his lips and try to swallow.

"Is there– Is there any water?"

Edmund slipped Peter's head off his lap and felt his way to the corner of the stall, to the water bucket. He brought it back with him and set it next to the blanket where he could reach it.

"Here."

He filled the dipper and held it to Peter's mouth, letting him drink as much as he could. Then he put the dipper back into the bucket and settled Peter's head in his lap once more.

"Tell me, Peter. What's not true?"

Again he felt Peter shake his head. "The Tarkheena. I didn't– Edmund, you don't think I would ever–"

"Of course not," Edmund soothed. "I know."

"I never touched her."

"Who accused you? The Tarkaan?"

"No. It was the Tarkheena herself. She'd– She'd been after me since I first came here, even that first day, when the Lady Cemil brought us up from the slave market."

Edmund wiped his face again and gave him another sip of water. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"It seemed–" Peter made a low sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "It seemed so unimportant. I thought I could just avoid her, but she wouldn't let me alone. It became more and more unbearable. I almost– I almost–"

"That's why you cut yourself," Edmund breathed, and he traced his fingers over the raised places in Peter's forearm where he had etched those runes. "Peter."

"I thought I could stay out of her way until we could get out. We were nearly there. So close."

Edmund squeezed his eyes shut. _So close. So close._

"It's all right, Peter. We'll find another way."

"Edmund?" Peter took hold of Edmund's shirt, clinging to him. "Edmund, where's Aslan? Why hasn't He–" His hands trembled. "I tried to do what He would have wanted me to. I tried to do what was right, and this is what I get? And now they're going to take me back to the slave market and sell me to– to I don't know who. I don't know where. Eddie, where's Aslan?"

"Peter." Edmund drew a hard breath and blinked back the tears that burned his eyes. "You listen to me, Peter. You can't quit now. I won't let you. I won't let you give up. I don't know why we're here. I don't know why all this has happened. But I know Aslan is with us. I know He hasn't forgotten us. You were punished for being true to Him. He sees that, and I know He'll reward you for it. You just have to stay strong."

"I can't do it anymore, Ed. I can't."

"You can." Edmund shook him slightly, making his voice fierce. "You have to. Whatever happens tomorrow, you have to."

"Ed–"

"Promise me, Peter. Promise me you'll hold on." Edmund's voice broke. "If you quit, how am I supposed to keep going?"

He buried his face against the sweat-matted golden hair, and then it was Peter, poor broken Peter, who was comforting him.

"You can, Ed. You will." Peter put one arm across Edmund's legs in an exhausted embrace. "All right? Please, Eddie. I have to know you're all right. I have to know you're safe. After I'm gone–"

Edmund drew a sobbing breath, and Peter shushed him.

"After I'm gone, I want you to stay right here. Lady Cemil will look after you, and someday, someday soon, Aslan– Aslan will make us a way to get home." Peter laughed faintly. "And they haven't sent me away yet."

_Oh, Peter, Peter. Not yet. Not yet, but soon._

Edmund sobbed again.

"Promise me, Ed. Promise you'll stay here and not do anything stupid."

"Peter, please."

"Promise me."

That was a command. Peter didn't have to say it. Edmund knew that tone. That was a command from the High King. From _his_ King.

Edmund caught a steadying breath and wiped his sleeve across his wet face. Then he straightened his shoulders.

"I promise, Peter. I promise I won't do anything stupid."

Peter relaxed a little more against him, and Edmund could tell his breathing was deepening into sleep. "Good man."

"But you have to promise me." Edmund shook him, not letting him drift off quite yet. "Peter, you have to promise me. Whatever happens, you won't give up."

"Promise," Peter murmured. "Aslan with me, I promise."

Again his breathing deepened and slowed, and after a moment, Edmund knew he was asleep. Trying his best not to wake him, Edmund curled up on his side where he was, comforting and protecting. They had not been parted yet.

He found Peter's hand in the darkness and held on to it.

They had not been parted yet.

**Author's Note: I'm trying to post at least once a week, so I hope this still counts as Sunday. If not . . . oopsie. Also, nobody's seen this but me, so if it's really dumb, it's all my fault.**

– **WD**


	22. Isaiah 41:6

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: ISAIAH 41:6

"Wake up, boy. Wake up."

Peter flinched. His whole body ached fiercely, bruised and beaten and stiff from lying the night on the stable floor, but he managed to turn towards the whispered words. There was just enough dawn light for him to see the old nurse leaning over him.

"Fareeha."

"Shhh!"

Face stern, she nodded towards his other side, and Peter looked over to see Edmund curled up next to him, insensible with sleep. More than likely he had stayed awake most of the night keeping watch, fighting sleep until he could fight no more.

"Don't wake him," Fareeha said. "I must speak to you, and he must not hear."

Peter clenched his jaw. "They're coming for me soon, aren't they."

Fareeha nodded, her expression grim. "The Lady Cemil told me the Tarkaan will not have you even in the stables a moment longer than he must."

"Please, Fareeha, you have to believe, the lady has to know, I would never do what the Tarkheena claimed I did. Not to her. Not to anyone."

"We know. We know the Tarkheena, even if the Tarkaan refuses to see her as she is."

"He loves her."

The old woman made a sour face. "He can see her true self no more than your poor brother there can see the sunrise. But that is of no matter now. They are coming for you. In an hour. Maybe two. Soon."

"Soon," Peter repeated, glancing over to where Edmund still slept.

The nurse looked over at him, too, and Peter saw a touch of fondness creep into her expression. Surely she and the lady had been sent to keep Edmund safe, to protect him and provide for him in his blindness, in this harsh, foreign place.

Peter clutched Fareeha's hand. "Please. You and Lady Cemil, you will see that he– that he–"

His voice broke, and the old woman's lined face softened. "You needn't worry, boy. But it is for his sake that the lady sent me to you now."

"Yes?"

"Did he happen to tell you how he was hurt?"

Even in the dim light, Peter could see the bandages on Edmund's hands, the cuts and bruises on his arms and even on his face.

"What happened?"

"Lady Cemil tried to get him away from the palace before your punishment began. When he heard your cries, he was desperate to get to you, crashing into anything that stood in his way until the lady finally calmed him with telling him she would find a way to get him here."

Peter shook his head. "Oh, Ed."

"You know he will not willingly leave you now, and you know he will not take it easily when they come to take you away." She pursed her lips. "If he tries to resist the Tarkaan's men, they will hurt him, and you will not be able to stop it."

"Please, Fareeha, you have to get him out of here now. You have to–" Peter stopped, making sure he hadn't wakened Edmund, forcing himself to speak more softly. "Make him go."

Fareeha snorted. "You are his brother. Do you think you would be able to make him?"

Peter exhaled heavily. "What can we do?"

She took a bottle from her skirt pocket and pressed it into his hands.

OOOOO

"Queen Lucy! Queen Lucy!"

Lucy blinked into the morning sunlight that streamed over her and finally focused on the pair of Robins that fluttered on her windowsill. Robins!

Instantly alert, she scrambled out of bed and scurried to the window. "Ruddock! Did you find them? Did you find them?"

"Your Majesty," Ruddock began with a bow of his feathered head. "This is my nephew Radek. He saw–"

"The High King! The High King!" The younger bird flapped his wings, hopping and bobbing. "I saw him. It was the High King."

Tears burned Lucy's eyes. "Alive? He's alive?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Ruddock said, "but–"

"Susan! Susan!" Lucy turned from the window, but the Robins called her back.

"Wait! Queen Lucy, wait!"

Lucy's heart sank at the grimness of their expressions.

"Radek saw the High King working as a slave in one of the flax fields there in Calormen. But the next day, when he fetched some of our flock to see, they did not find him."

Lucy bit her lip, trying hard not to cry. "But you are certain it was King Peter?"

Radek nodded fiercely. "It was, Your Majesty! It was!"

Lucy rubbed her eyes. Peter was alive. They were sure he was alive!

"And King Edmund?"

The Robins exchanged a glance.

"We are still looking," Ruddock said finally. "The boy who was seen at the slave market, the blind one, we think he was taken to the palace of one of the Tarkaans, but we have yet to find him. From the air, he is not as easy to tell from the Calormenes as the High King."

Lucy nodded. If Peter was alive, then surely Edmund was, too. She had to tell Susan.

"Has your flock seen anything else we should know about?"

Radek looked at Ruddock urgently, and Ruddock gave him a little nod.

"We aren't certain, Queen Lucy. If the birds there were talking Birds, we could have found the Kings very quickly, and we would know much more about what we've seen."

"What have you seen?"

"There are Dwarfs there."

Lucy frowned. "In Calormen?"

Radek nodded vigorously. "I saw them. Many of them."

"As did I, Majesty," Ruddock said. "They were coming in and out of a hole in the ground carrying bundles."

Lucy shook her head, baffled. Dwarfs? The Calormenes had an absolute horror of anything particularly Narnian – Dryads, Centaurs, Talking Beasts and, certainly, Dwarfs. Why would they have Dwarfs in their country?

"What were they doing?"

"We're not yet sure." Ruddock dropped his head. "One of our flock was brave enough to fly into the hole after them, but he never came out. We fear the Dwarfs knew he was a talking Robin."

Lucy bit her lip. "I'm sorry."

"He knew the risks," Ruddock said. "We have all pledged to do all we can to find our Kings and bring them home."

Lucy smiled, again fighting tears. "Your courage and faithfulness will be rewarded, all of you. By us and, surely, by Aslan Himself. Now, if you will both excuse me, I really must let my sister know what you've just told me. She will–"

She broke off at the insistent knocking at her door.

"Come in."

Mr. Tumnus hurried into the room. "Forgive the disturbance, dear Queen Lucy, but Queen Susan is waiting for you in the council chamber."

"So early?" Lucy's forehead wrinkled. "What has happened?"

"We have received a message from the Tisroc."

OOOOO

Peter waited as long as he could, watching the sun rise hot and unrelenting over the courtyard, knowing the Tarkaan's men would come for him soon. He couldn't wait any longer.

"Edmund."

He shook his brother's shoulder, noticing again how thin it was. _Please eat, Edmund. When I'm gone, please eat._

"Edmund. Come on."

Edmund muttered something unintelligible and rolled over, curling up more tightly than before. Peter laid one hand on his head. _Aslan watch over you, my brother, my King._

"Wake up, Ed. Wake up."

_You'll have plenty of sleep soon. Please get enough rest when I'm gone._

"Peter?" Edmund sat up, reaching out until his hands came in contact with Peter's. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I thought I might," Peter told him, forcing himself not to sound as battered as he felt. "Whatever medicine Fareeha used seemed to have helped a lot. Not that I'm ready to do it all again, of course."

"Peter, are they going to–"

"Don't worry about that yet, Ed." Peter slipped his arm around his brother's shoulders and pulled him into a hug. "They wouldn't get much for me in the slave market like this, would they? Banged up and all?"

Edmund gave him a grudging smile. "Maybe not. Peter, Fareeha's going to come get me any time now. She said she was. I don't want to go."

"Edmund–"

"I won't go."

Peter saw the familiar stubbornness in his brother's face, in the tightness in his mouth and in the hardness of his jaw, and prayed Aslan would bless Fareeha for her perceptiveness.

"She's already been and gone, Ed."

"Really?" Edmund smiled a little. "I thought she'd try to make me go back inside."

"I guess she thought you needed your sleep. She brought us both some breakfast though. Here."

Peter gave Edmund one of the little raisin-filled cakes Fareeha had brought. After a tentative bite, Edmund devoured it and two others. Peter watched him, glad they would have these few moments of peace before–

"Here, Ed. Drink some of this."

Peter handed him the bottle Fareeha had brought him. _Aslan forgive me. Please forgive me._

"What is it?"

"Just some cold tea and honey. It's what they gave us sometimes when I worked down in the fields. It's good to quench your thirst and keep you cool in this heat."

Edmund nodded and took a swig. Then he made a face.

"Ugh. What's in that? Tastes bitter."

"Just a little," Peter told him. _Forgive me, Aslan._ "Just at first. She told me she put something in it to kill pain, too."

Edmund held the bottle out to him. "Then you should have it."

"No." Peter pushed it back towards him. "There's plenty for both of us. I don't think it's that strong. Just enough to take the edge off. Go ahead."

"You first."

Edmund offered him the bottle again, and this time Peter took it. With his thumb over the opening, he tipped it back, letting the contents slosh forward and swallowing hard as if he were drinking deeply. With a sigh of satisfaction, he wiped his mouth and passed the bottle back to his brother.

"Come on now, Ed. You need it, too. She told me what you did to yourself." Peter smoothed the hair back from his forehead, his throat tightening with the tears he had to hold back. _Brother, brother_. "Stupid git."

Edmund lowered his head, faint color coming into his face, and he took a deep drink. "For all the good it did you. Here."

He offered Peter the bottle again, and once again Peter pretended to drink. Then he returned the bottle to his brother.

Edmund just held it for a long moment, taking unsteady little breaths as if he wanted to say something but couldn't. Then he gulped down some more of the drink, and Peter felt like a traitor for wanting him to take even more. _Aslan, be with him._

"Peter?" Edmund's voice was small and a little unsteady. "When do you think they'll come for you?"

Peter put his arm around his shoulders once again. "Not for a while yet. Don't worry."

"Will you–" Edmund looked up, dark eyes brimming with tears. "Will you be all right?"

"Sure I will." Peter forced more assurance into his voice than he felt. "I promised, remember?"

Edmund had to use both hands to lift the bottle this time, but he managed it. He managed to take another deep drink. Then Peter had to take it from him before he dropped it.

"You'll remember, too, right, Ed?"

Peter drew his head down to his shoulder and, eyes half closed now, Edmund didn't resist.

"You'll remember your promise, won't you, Edmund?"

Edmund was taking little huffing breaths now and his eyes were completely closed. He was limp against Peter's shoulder.

"Edmund?"

"Prom'se."

"Good man," Peter whispered.

He just sat there, listening to Edmund's breathing slow and deepen, willing into him every bit of strength and courage he possessed. At last he heard voices in the courtyard, and he knew it was time. He eased Edmund down onto the blanket and pressed a kiss to his pale forehead.

"Aslan hold you between His paws, brother mine, and bring us safe one day to His country."

He turned at the rustle of boots in the straw.

"Get up, barbarian."

**Author's Note: This chapter is part of the **_**24 in 24 Authors' Challenge**_**.**

– **WD**


	23. Acts 10:43

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER 23: ACTS 10:43

_The Glorious and Almighty Tisroc, Ruler of Calormen and Chosen of the Gods, to the Most Excellent and Beauteous Queens, Susan the Gentle and Lucy the Valiant of Narnia, in the name of Tash the irresistible, the inexorable, greetings and good fortune. In the days since the tragic decease of your noble brothers, the Kings Peter the Magnificent and Edmund the Just, I have become greatly distressed to think of two ladies so young and lovely left comfortless in their sorrow. In some small measure to assuage what must be insupportable grief, and to prove the deep affection I tender towards you and your beloved kingdom, I am sending to you this token of beauty and wonder from my own land to cheer your hearts and delight your eyes, a gift from Tash himself. May it bring us into closer fellowship._

Susan looked up from the beautifully wrought, illuminated Calormene script and smiled, looking relieved to see Lucy come into the council chamber.

"Mr. Tumnus said we have a message from the Tisroc." Lucy read the paper over Susan's shoulder and frowned. "What did he send?"

"We haven't opened it yet."

Susan nodded towards the box Oreius was holding. It was not very large, perhaps a foot long and half that wide and deep, but it was intricately carved and as beautiful as the message that had accompanied it.

"What do you think's in it?" Lucy asked, touching one finger to the edge of the box.

"Nothing, Majesty," Oreius offered. "Judging by the weight."

He handed the box to Lucy, and she was surprised to feel just how light it was. Frowning slightly, she shook it, and then caught a startled breath. There was a faint humming coming from inside it, a humming that began with one clear note and then was accompanied by another and another and then a few more, all combining into one complex and lovely chord.

The sound died away after a few seconds, and Oreius took the box once again. "Yes. It does that."

Lucy looked at her sister. "I– I don't know what to think. What ought we to do?"

"If it is from Calormen," Mr. Tumnus advised, "we should have nothing to do with it."

"Now that's not very fair." Susan eyed the box, looking intrigued. "We have had some lovely things from their ambassadors over the years."

Lucy glanced at Oreius's grave face and then set her own in determined lines. "I say we must take the adventure that has been sent to us. We are Queens and not cowards."

She reached for the box, but the Centaur General did not release it.

"If you will, Majesty, I would rather you allowed me to open it. Just as a precaution."

She glanced at Susan and, getting a serene nod in answer, gave her consent. Oreius carried the box to the far corner of the council chamber and set it on the small table there. Then, glancing once more at the Queens, he opened the ornate golden latch and lifted the lid.

OOOOO

Edmund licked his dry lips and tried to swallow, but he was so parched he could not. How long had he been asleep? The last thing he really remembered was Peter calling him a stupid git and saying he would be all right and that there was still time before the Tarkaan's men came for him. Still time.

He tried again to swallow and then felt around for the water bucket. Wait. He wasn't lying on a blanket on top of straw.

"Peter?"

He stretched his hands out in front of him and found the now-familiar carved table and water pitcher. He felt beneath him again and found soft cushions and cool linen coverings. This was his own sleeping pallet in the little room off Lady Cemil's chamber. He scrambled to his feet and went to the window, knowing by the way the sun hit his face that it was late afternoon.

_Drink some of this . . . she put something in it to kill pain . . . I don't think it's that strong._

Tears welled into Edmund's eyes. "Oh, Peter. Stupid, stupid–"

He choked down a sob.

_Promise me, Ed. Promise you'll stay here and not do anything stupid._

_I promise I won't do anything stupid._

"Peter. Peter."

Edmund went back to the water pitcher and took a deep drink. Then he splashed his face and dried it. He had only promised not to do anything stupid, and stupid, he supposed, was in the eye of the beholder.

Straightening his shoulders, he opened the door and went to stand before the lady's usual chair. He knew she was there. He could smell the faint, fresh sweetness of her perfume.

"Edrret, child–"

He made a curt bow. "He's already gone, isn't he."

Lady Cemil took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and then she pulled him into her arms. "We thought it for the best, child."

He stood stiffly in her embrace. "I understand."

"Edrret, child . . ." She released him, and he could hear the pain in her words as she caressed his cheek. "We wanted only to spare you."

"Do you–" He had to force his voice to stay steady. "Do you know where he will go?"

"Back to the slave market, and then it is impossible to say who might buy him."

Edmund nodded. "I understand. Is there anything more, Mistress?"

"Come, child." She tugged his hand. "Sit with me and tell me again of Narnia. Will that not cheer you?"

He realized he may never have the chance to tell the lady about Narnia ever again and, feeling a fresh calmness come over him along with resolution to do what he must, he did as she asked. As always, her servant girls gathered around them, eager to hear a new tale.

"There is a story I've been meaning to tell you all. I never finished the tale of the Valiant Queen and the night before the Battle of Beruna, but it's my favorite story in all Narnia. Lucy and her sister, Susan, heard stirring outside their tent and went to see what it was . . . "

When he got to the part of the story where Aslan willingly laid down his life, Naz, one of the very young girls, gasped.

"But the boy was a traitor! He deserved to die!"

"He did," Edmund assured her, feeling that ever-fresh wonder and gratitude that flooded over him every time he remembered what the Great Lion had done. "But the Lion loved him, even though he didn't deserve it."

"It is very sad," Ayla said disdainfully. "So the boy was freed and the Lion was dead. Did the boy even know what he'd done for him?"

"Not at first," Edmund said. "But he found out. And even before the Lion died, when the boy realized how much the Lion loved him, he didn't want to be a traitor anymore. He wanted to be an honorable King and serve the subjects the Lion had given him. But that's not the best part."

Ayla sniffed. "The Lion died. What more could there be?"

"Hush, girl," the lady said. "Let him tell his tale."

"In the morning, Susan and Lucy were still grieving beside the Lion's body, but they decided they must go tell their brothers what had happened. When they turned to leave, there was a great cracking sound and they realized the Stone Table had broken into pieces and the Lion's body was gone."

Naz gasped again. "Had the demons taken him away?"

"No, it was a greater wonder than that," Edmund said. "For when the girls looked into the rising sun, there before them was the Lion alive again. And because of Him, the Witch had no more power in Narnia."

"Then what they say about him is true," Ayla said. "He is a demon."

"No, He is greater than any demon or anything else. And by His love, He saved not only that boy, but any who would come to Him, no matter who they are or what they've done."

"We serve Tash."

Edmund could hear the frown in Ayla's voice.

"Only if you choose to," he said gently.

"Some things, even a god cannot forgive."

Lady Cemil's voice was wistful and soft, and Edmund wondered if she was thinking of the girl child she had sacrificed on the altar of Tash. It must be nearly forty years now, and he hated that she still carried that guilt.

"Truly, O My Mistress, He forgives all who ask of Him."

"But surely, child, this is but a fable. These stories of the Lion of Narnia, they cannot be true."

"They are, Mistress. I know. I've met the Lion myself. He lives even now."

She patted his arm. "You are fortunate, my young one. Perhaps you will tell me more of this some other time."

He felt for her hand and clasped it tightly. "And if I do not, Dear Mistress, I pray you will remember all I have said."

She caught a surprised little breath when he leaned over and kissed her cheek and then hugged her as tightly as he was able.

"Truly, Mistress, if you remember nothing else of me, remember that."

Late in the night, when the household was silent and sleeping, Edmund made his way through the garden, out of the gate that was never locked and into the street.

He was going home.

**Author's Note: Gentle Reader, do let me know what you think. What will happen to Peter? How will Edmund get away if he's blind? And what is in that box? Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for looking this over for me.**

– **WD**


	24. Isaiah 42:16

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: ISAIAH 42:16

Lucy drew a deep breath as a wary Oreius slowly lifted the lid of the ornate Calormene box, the gift of the Tisroc. _A token of beauty and wonder from my own land to cheer your hearts and delight your eyes, a gift from Tash himself. _She didn't like that last part of the Tisroc's note. _A gift from Tash himself._ No doubt that was a great compliment from someone from Calormen, but it gave her rather an uneasy feeling to think of it. Still, as she had said, she and Susan were Queens, not cowards, and she would not turn back.

Then everyone gasped as, with a clear, humming note, out flew a tiny, silvery butterfly. Perhaps it wasn't quite a butterfly, but it was small and winged, hovering there until it was joined by another of its kind, and another humming note blended in harmony with the first. Then two more of the creatures emerged, then three and then another two. Finally, four more came to hover with the others, each of them adding its own note to the progressively complex chord, and Lucy began to notice the variations in color and pattern in each of the creatures. They all had the same silvery sheen, but where one had a lavender tinge, another was touched with rose or amethyst or turquoise. It was like having a garden of flowers burst into life and into song.

No one was able to do anything but stand breathless at the sight and the sound. Truly, as the Tisroc had written, it was sheer beauty and wonder, a delight for the eyes and the ears. Surely not, as he had said, a gift from Tash. This was the sort of sweet wonder Aslan would send. For a long, breathless moment, that glorious chord grew, the harmonies within it shifting and building until she wanted to weep for sheer joy. Then the delicate winged creatures fluttered away, through the open windows and out into the summer sunshine. The last of them, the one with primrose tinging its silvery wings, alighted on the honeysuckle vine that twined around the balcony and started to eat. Before anyone even thought to notice, the creature had stripped the leaves and flowers from a long vine.

Lucy looked at her sister and then at Oreius and Mr. Tumnus, wide-eyed. "What about all the others?"

OOOOO

Edmund paused at the gate that led from the garden of the Tarkaan's palace to the path that would take him into the street. For a moment he clutched the wrought iron, still slightly warm from the merciless day's sun. _Not too late to turn around and go back inside, _his fear told him. _You know the path to the street, but then what? You're blind. Helpless. You'll only be brought back. Punished. Punished as Peter was. Maybe you'll be sold away. Do you want to end up the property of that oily Tahir? The lady will not be able to save you this time. You promised Peter. You promised. You're blind. Helpless. You can't possibly–_

"I will," he hissed aloud. "I'm blind. Not helpless."

He knew the path to the street. He knew just how many steps to take, and then he knew the turns to make to go down to the marketplace, the slave auctions, the docks. He'd walked this way many times, following the Lady Cemil's litter, holding on to it so he wouldn't lose his way. Each time, he had counted his steps, made note of particular sounds and smells, of any uneven places in the street, memorizing anything he could use to guide himself, filing it all into his memory as Oreius had taught him, waiting. Waiting for now.

He had thought Peter would be with him when he finally made his escape, but Peter–

That couldn't be helped now. Peter was gone, and Edmund would have to do his best alone.

"Aslan," he whispered, surprised at the sudden stinging in his useless eyes. "Show me the way. Be my guide in this darkness."

He stepped into the street, moving carefully. This was all right. Not much different than all the times he had walked this way in the company of the Lady Cemil. He grinned a little. The stones felt the same under his boots. The smells were the same. It was quieter, of course, but it didn't matter to him that it was the middle of the night. He didn't need the light. He was well able–

"Ooof."

He found himself sprawled face down, one foot in the hole where one of the stones was supposed to be, his already damaged hands scraped and throbbing once more. He let his breath slow, and then he scrambled to his knees, listening. He heard something. Something in the darkness there beside him.

"Who's there?" he hissed.

For a moment there was only the quiet sounds of night, and then he heard something breathing. Close by. He braced himself, fists clenched, and then that something rubbed against his arm.

"Prrrrt."

A laugh escaped him, and then he stifled it. A cat. Just a cat.

"I don't suppose you're a talking Cat, are you, Cousin?"

The cat merely purred and rubbed against him again. He stroked both hands down the creature's back, surprisingly glad for the company. Which way? Oh, Aslan, am I turned around the wrong way? He calmed his breathing again and forced himself to think clearly. No. He knew the way. He knew the way. Calm and steady.

He got to his feet and started out again, this time more cautiously, and he heard a low mew in front of him, a little to his left.

"Shh," he murmured.

He certainly didn't need to draw the attention of anyone who might be awake at this hour. Surely not everyone in Tashbaan had gone to sleep.

He took another step, and again the cat mewed, louder this time. Edmund decided he'd better hurry before the dratted thing woke up everyone within five miles. Half running, he moved down the street.

"Ooof."

He sprawled headlong again, this time surprised when his hands came in contact with grass and not stone. Once more, the cat mewed. It had evidently not moved from where he had first come in contact with it. Obviously, he had crossed the street instead of going down it. So much for not being turned around.

He stood up and waited. When the cat mewed again, he went back to it. "You may not be a talking Cat, Cousin, but I think you may be wiser than I first thought."

The cat purred and rubbed against his calf, and then he heard it patter a few steps ahead of him. This time Edmund followed. It was rather slow going, listening for the cat's soft footfalls, taking a few steps to where it had stopped, listening again. Sometimes, it would stop even when Edmund had caught up to it, and he would put out a cautious foot, always finding some obstacle in the road or the sound of someone coming along the street the opposite direction.

As they walked along, there were a few more people, still not many, but more than there had been at the top of the city. Here near the market, near the docks, there were idlers in the streets and men returning to their beds after a night of work or carousing. Once a woman called an invitation to him from somewhere above, from a window in all likelihood, but he did not acknowledge her. He merely kept his head down and kept his attention on the cat in front of him. It was harder now to hear the almost-silent steps, but he managed it somehow. And if he took a wrong turn, the creature would meow softly and draw him back into the path.

Before long, there was a change in the air. He could taste salt in the wind and smell the tangy, fishy smell of the sea.

"The docks," he whispered, sheltering against the wall of a building.

The cat rubbed, purring, against his ankle, and he knelt down to scratch between its ears.

"Thank you, good Cousin. The Lion bless you for what you've done."

He stayed there on one knee, still holding on to his feline guide. Now what? He hadn't exactly planned what he'd do if he made it all the way here. Maybe he hadn't truly believed he would make it at all. But here he was. Now what?

A ship, of course. He had to steal his way onto a ship and one that was headed for Narnia or at least somewhere friendly to her. How was he to know? He crept closer to where he could hear sailors loading cargo, talking and laughing and swearing. He could hear the lap of the water against the shore, against the dock itself, and his stomach clenched. The fear that had overtaken him that day by the river flooded through him once again. If he were to fall into the water, how would he know if he was fighting his way back to the surface, back to air and life, or if he was struggling further and further into the depths until there was no return. He was blind. Helpless.

_Not helpless_, he told himself fiercely. _Not helpless_.

The cat rubbed against his leg again, and he stroked the warm fur, feeling a sudden calm. Had not Aslan sent him a guide? Surely Aslan would guide him still.

He stood listening to the sailors again. They were headed up the coast. From Tashbaan, past Archenland, all along Narnia and then beyond. It would do. It would do. He just had to find a way on to the ship without being seen. Aslan help him, how?

He pulled the cat a little closer, whispering to it. "What now, Cousin? What now?"

It made an inquisitive little mew, and he stood up. Listening again. What was he supposed to do now.

Without warning, the cat yowled, and he heard someone gasp.

"Edmund?"

**Author's Note: Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for looking this over. Any guesses as to who that is who spotted Edmund at the end? Do let me know what you think of the Tisroc's gift.**

– **WD**


	25. 2 Corinthians 7:10

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: 2 CORINTHIANS 7:10

"Darreth."

Edmund shrank back against the wall that sheltered him, but he was trapped there. The Terebinthian he had once thought was his friend, the one who had helped capture him and Peter and sell them into slavery, was between him and the street.

"Edmund, what are you doing here? I thought you were– Uh, I didn't expect to see you again."

"I daresay."

Edmund kept his head down and didn't move. Darreth had seemed to regret his part in the scheme to betray him and Peter and Narnia, but he had been too weak to stand up to his brother. Where was Arren anyway? For all Edmund knew, Arren could be standing there with Darreth, ready to take Edmund back to the Tarkaan.

For a long moment, there were only the sounds of the night and the sea. The sailors had evidently gone to get a meal and a drink. Darreth wasn't moving, wasn't making a sound. He only stood there, and Edmund could feel his eyes on him.

"How– how are you, Edmund?"

_How am I?_ Edmund wanted to laugh at so mundane a question after all that had happened, but he merely shrugged.

"Well enough."

He heard Darreth move closer, heard his shallow breathing. What was he going to do?

He flinched when he felt Darreth's hand on his shoulder.

"Edmund, I'm– I'm sorry. About everything."

Still Edmund didn't move, didn't lift his head, didn't speak. What did Darreth have in mind?

"It was Arren." The Terbinthian sounded just as remorseful as he had the last time Edmund had seen him. "I didn't have any choice but to help him betray you and the High King."

"We always have choices," Edmund told him coolly.

"I know."

Darreth sighed, and again Edmund merely waited, pressing himself a little further back into the wall and moving his leg a little to one side, hoping to feel the comforting presence of the cat that had been his guide from the Tarkaan's palace. Where had it gone?

"Look." Darreth's voice was suddenly urgent. "I'm sorry. Truly I am. Won't you even look at me?"

Steeling himself, Edmund lifted his head, turning his face in the direction of Darreth's voice.

"Edmund? You're– you're blind."

Edmund gave him a sardonic smile. "I daresay."

"What happened? It's– I– Edmund, what happened?"

"Slave traders are not always careful with their merchandise."

Darreth's grip on his shoulder tightened, and for a moment Edmund could only hear his unsteady breathing.

"I never meant–"

"It doesn't matter what you meant," Edmund snapped. "Things are as they are. What are you going to do now? Take me back? Turn me over to the Tisroc?"

"Edmund–"

"You know your brother would."

"Arren would do a lot of things."

Edmund pressed his lips into a hard line. "Yes, I heard his plans for my little sister."

"I'm sorry about that." The shame in Darreth's voice was palpable. "I know she's only a little girl."

"So what are you going to do?"

Edmund wished he could see Darreth's face. When he'd seen the Terebinthian last, he'd been able to read the remorse and uncertainty in his eyes. Now he could only wait and pray it was there again.

"Darreth?"

The grip on his shoulder tightened. "Listen, we have only a few minutes. I'm supposed to meet Arren at our ship."

Edmund tensed. "Where is he?"

Darreth laughed under his breath. "He spent the evening at one of the . . . _houses_ near here. He'll be along any time now."

Edmund could tell by Darreth's tone of voice that this _house_ could only be one like Tahir's, a place of misery where flesh was bought and sold. Arren frequented such places and yet dared to set his foul sights on Lucy? Edmund clenched his jaw.

"So?"

"I happen to know this ship will be sailing north, past Narnia," Darreth said. "If we can get you on it, you can get back home. Even if they find you've stowed away and put you off, you ought to be able to stay hidden at least until they make Archenland. Do you think you could do that, even though you're–"

Edmund lifted his chin. "I've gotten this far."

"Very well." Darreth paused, as if he were looking around. "I'm certain those sailors will be back soon. They've already stacked some crates and barrels to be lifted onto the deck. If you can weasel your way in between them and keep still, they ought to lift you on board neat as you please. What do you think?"

Edmund nodded. "If you can tell me which way and how far, I can see to the rest."

"I'll lead you over, but we'd best hurry while there's still no one about."

Darreth took Edmund's arm and hurried him closer to the lapping sound of the sea.

"If you crouch in between those barrels there, they shouldn't see you in the dark. Just make sure to slip out and find a place to stow yourself before they unload this in the morning. There's a lifeboat on the ship with a canvas covering it. That might be just the place."

"Right."

Darreth helped Edmund get situated and then gave his shoulder a parting clasp. "Safe journey."

"Darreth?"

"Yes?"

"What about you? Won't your brother–"

"I know helping you isn't going to make it easier for him or me, but if you could leave out my part in this when you tell of your escape, I'd take it as a favor."

Edmund nodded. "I'll do that. And thank you." He paused for a second. "Darreth?"

"Yes?"

"What are your brother and the Tisroc planning against Narnia?"

"Don't ask me that. I've already done more than I ought. From here, you rule your fate." Darreth laughed shakily. "I wish there was some way to undo all that's happened. Edmund, if I'd really known–"

"What's done is done," Edmund murmured, remembering hearing those very words not so many years ago. "No need to talk of what's past. But Darreth?"

Darreth was silent, waiting.

"If you happen to see Peter, please, couldn't you do something for him, too?"

The Terebinthian gave a startled laugh. "Don't ask the impossible. It was a miracle that I saw you here. But, even if I did happen upon him somewhere, I could no more help the High King than–"

"Darreth?"

Edmund froze and shrunk down among the barrels. That was Arren already. _Aslan, don't let him see me. Don't let him know I'm here._

"What are you doing over there, boy? Our ship is down this way."

Arren sounded vexed and more than a little drunk.

"Coming."

Darreth hurried back into the street and soon their footsteps and Arren's scolding faded into silence. Before long, the sailors returned, and Edmund felt the platform he was on hoisted onto the ship's deck. The sailors argued over whether they should stow the cargo now or in the morning, and as they did, Edmund felt his way over to the side of the ship, over to the lifeboat that was just where Darreth had said it would be.

In a trice, he was under the canvas and in the bottom of the boat. He lay there willing his heartbeat to slow, praying his too-quick breaths couldn't be heard by the sailors on deck. But surely, from the guidance of the cat to Darreth's appearance in the street to his stowing away here in the lifeboat, all this was Aslan's grace and provision.

_Am I going home at last? Oh, Aslan, please, let it be. And bring Peter home, too._

OOOOO

Peter stood as straight as he could manage, his body aching more fiercely than before. Whatever medicine Fareeha had used to ease his pain had worn off on the jolting cart ride down to the slave market, and the chafing shackles on his wrists and ankles only added to his discomfort. One of the Tarkaan's slaves shoved Peter to his knees, and then Peter heard a familiar voice.

"I see you have been most unwise, barbarian."

Peter looked up at the pock-faced Calormene with the deceptively mild smile. "Serkan."

The slave trader prodded Peter's back with one bony finger, making him hiss with sudden pain. "Most unwise."

The Tarkaan's slave nodded towards Peter. "My master the noble Tarkaan says you are to sell this one at once and you may keep all you get for him."

"Most generous," Serkan murmured. "Most generous. And where, barbarian, is your young brother? Has he, too, been unwise?"

Peter bit his lip, remembering Edmund's slurred promise before the sleeping draught took him, his promise to not do anything stupid. Peter couldn't protect him now. He couldn't protect himself.

He bowed his head._ Please, Aslan, keep us both safe. And bring us home._

OOOOO

Lucy stood looking over the palace garden, the dear little private garden her brothers and sister had for their own use. In the past five years, she and Susan had spent many happy hours with the Dryads and with the Moles and Mice and other digging creatures, weeding and planting and pruning and making the place a delight for the eyes and the nose. They had planted and tended lavender and lilacs and wisteria along with roses and tulips and lilies and even the humbler flowers, daisies and dewdrops and little wild things Lucy thought must have names, though she had yet to hear them. It had long been one of her favorite places in all Narnia.

Now it was bare and blasted, dirt instead of grass, broken stems instead of flowers, chewed twigs instead of leaves. The creatures had even stripped the bark from the trees. Soon the trees themselves would be dead. And there was nothing that could be done.

When Lucy had seen the devastation the creatures had wrought in their first few moments of freedom, she had told Oreius to have them caught and confined at once. But the creatures were amazingly elusive, and even the Hawks and Owls and other predators could not catch them. One of the dear Robins had at last managed to snap up a chartreuse-colored one and swallowed it whole. Within seconds, the Bird convulsed and died.

Finally, Lucy had agreed that the creatures must be destroyed. Oh, how she wished she had never given such an order, for if one was mashed or pierced or otherwise harmed, it merely burst, producing three or four more of its kind. To Lucy's horror, even from the open mouth of the dead Robin came several more of the infernal things, and all of them immediately began to eat. But if the silvery invaders were left alone, they eventually burst anyway, multiplying like locusts, foraging farther and farther for food and leaving behind them only devastation.

Tash. A gift from Tash himself, and there seemed to be no way of stopping them.

She looked towards the south, towards Tashbaan, towards where she prayed her brothers still lived. "Aslan, please," she whispered. "Help us. Help us all. And bring them home."

**Author's Note: Peter and Edmund are eager to get home, so I'm posting this a little early. What do you think will happen next? **

– **WD**


	26. Romans 14:8

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: ROMANS 14:8

Peter stood shackled with the other slaves that were to be auctioned off that day, but he was not to be sold. Not yet.

"Though you have been most unwise," Serkan had told him, looking on him with shrewd eyes, "you will bring me another good price when your injuries have healed and you are again able to work. A little investment in food, not too much mind, and in patience this one time will not be amiss."

So now Peter watched and listened as Serkan extolled the various desirable qualities of his merchandise. He whispered a plea for Aslan's mercy for those who were sold and for himself, for his sisters, for Edmund and for sweet Narnia. How could he watch over any of them while he was chained here in accursed Tashbaan?

Serkan had just sold a boy and girl as house slaves to a bored-looking Tarkheena and began the sale of a Seven-Islander who was a skilled carpenter, when the bidding abruptly stopped.

"Way for Prince Shahrivar the Resplendent! Way! Way! Way for Prince Shahrivar!"

Everyone bowed or knelt as, surrounded by his guard and heralds and pages, Prince Shahrivar swept into the courtyard. He was astride a skittish thoroughbred and brought the poor beast to a halt with a cutting jerk on the reins.

"You there! Slave trader!"

Serkan hurried to the Prince's side, bowing and scraping. "The favor of Tash upon you, noble Prince. How may I serve you?"

Prince Shahrivar's hard black eyes swept over the group of slaves Serkan still had for sale. "I need five or six of your strongest slaves. The imbeciles I sent before brought me nothing but weaklings and old men, and I am in haste."

Peter ducked his head as the Prince dismounted and came towards him. How many sons did the Tisroc have anyway? Ten? Forty? Edmund would know. A year or so ago, the two Kings had attended a banquet here in Tashbaan with the Tisroc and all of his considerable family. Had Shahrivar been there? Peter couldn't remember seeing him ever before.

"Here, most redoubtable Prince Shahrivar, are all the slaves I have," Serkan said. "Look among them. Take those who most please you."

The Prince inspected the available merchandise, picking out two burly Calormenes. Then he fixed his eyes on Peter.

"A barbarian from the north, I see. Tallest of the lot, not broad but well muscled. I shall have this one as well."

Serkan shook his head, rubbing his hands together. "Forgive me, Noble Prince, but this one is injured. You will not find him able to work at full strength for a little while yet. Perhaps this Archenlander would better suit? He is a quarryman and, to my mind, the strongest of my slaves."

Shahrivar glanced at the Archenlander and then again at Peter. "Injured you say?" He prodded Peter's back with the handle of his riding crop, and Peter flinched. "Whipped, no doubt. I trust he's learned from the lash."

"I am certain of it, Highness. But, alas–"

"I shall take him anyway. The barbarian will no doubt find the task I have for him most invigorating."

"As you say, Mighty Prince Shahrivar. As you say."

"Let me have your quarryman as well, those two brutes over there and the two I selected earlier and name your price. The day is hot, and I have no patience for haggling."

In a few minutes, it was done. Serkan removed Peter's shackles and the shackles of the other five men the Prince had bought. Then one of the Prince's men shackled them all by the wrists again, and then began to attach those shackles to a long chain that would keep them bound together until they arrived at whatever destination Shahrivar had in mind for them. Peter was glad that at least he had not been recognized.

He was not afraid of hard work. He had trained these five years under a Centaur, a Centaur who constantly pushed him to the limit of his endurance. He rather thought that now, once he had recovered, there was little a mere human could require of him that would be beyond his strength. And soon, surely, Aslan would make him a way out. Surely, He would not forget his chosen. Surely–

Peter sucked in a hissing breath as the Prince once more jabbed the butt end of his riding crop into his back, but he was careful to keep his head down.

"What was your offense, barbarian?" Shahrivar asked out of the hearing of the others, his voice low and smooth.

"I refused to betray my Master, Prince Shahrivar," Peter murmured, not looking up.

The Prince used the handle of his riding crop to lift Peter's chin, and Peter saw a gloating intensity in the Calormene's eyes.

"Or was it that your Master betrayed you, Peter, High King of Narnia?"

OOOOO

Edmund lay listening in the bottom of the lifeboat, not knowing if it was day or night, not knowing how far the ship had sailed or how long he had slept this time. He had tried his best to stay awake, but the last he remembered was hearing the change of the watch at dawn. They had to be nearing Narnia by now. He'd heard the sailors talking from time to time about where they were headed and how long it would take. They had bypassed Archenland. Narnia had to be their next port of call.

His mouth was bone dry and his stomach growled so loudly it was a wonder one of the men didn't hear it. The first night he was aboard, he had heard a couple of the sailors at the water barrel, squabbling good naturedly over whether or not the ale in the last tavern they had visited was any stronger than what was in the barrel. As soon as it was quiet again, Edmund had stolen out and taken a drink himself. But his opportunities were few and far between, the last one sometime in the wee hours of the night before.

He had thought to bring along some bread, a few carrots and an apple from the Tarkaan's palace when he left it, but as carefully as he tried to ration it all out, he'd eaten every bit by the night before last. Surely they would be in Narnia soon.

"Cair Paravel by dawn, eh, mate?"

Edmund caught his breath at the gruff voice and felt tears sting his eyes. _Narnia. Home. Oh, Aslan, home._

"Unload the cargo and move on as quick as we may, I say, and the sooner the better." The second voice was younger, just as broad in the vowels, like the first, the voice of a Lone Islander. "I never much liked Narnia, Blinn. There are some things as shouldn't talk, and beasts is one of 'em."

Edmund grinned a little. He didn't care how long they stayed, just so it was long enough for him to get ashore. From the docks, blind or not, he could make his way home.

"Come on, Tinz," the first voice said. "Work to be done."

"Right you are."

Edmund heard the clatter of their footsteps as they moved off, and then there was silence. He swallowed hard. He could make it till morning without anything to eat, he was certain, but he would definitely need water before then. He'd better slip out of his hiding place and get a drink before any of the sailors came around again.

He listened for a moment, making sure his way was clear, and then crept out of the lifeboat and made his way to the water barrel. As quickly as he was able, he gulped down a dipper full of water and than another. He was just bringing a third to his mouth when someone grabbed his wrist and shoved him against the rail.

"Our little mouse springs the trap at last." It was the man with the gruff voice. Blinn. "I knew there was something funny going on the past few days."

Edmund ducked his head. Not now. Not when he was so close. "Please, sir. I just want to get to Narnia. I didn't mean any harm."

"You know what happens to stowaways aboard this ship, don't you, boy?"

The other one, Tinz, laughed. "They go straight over the side they do."

Edmund felt his stomach clench. Over the side. Into the sea. He'd never be able to tell if he was swimming up to life or down to death. If he made it back to the surface, how would he know which way was the shore and which way was open and endless sea. His mouth was suddenly dry again.

"I can make it worth your while to take me to Cair Paravel. I swear I can."

The two men merely laughed.

"Go on," said Tinz. "A slave run away from Tashbaan? What could you possibly do?"

"I'm not a slave," Edmund said, hating the thin tremulousness in his voice. "I'm a King. King Edmund the Just."

There was a moment of perfect silence, and then the two men burst out laughing.

"Pull the other one," Blinn said.

"I am. Take me to Cair Paravel, and you will be handsomely rewarded by my sisters."

One of the men struck him across the face, and Edmund stumbled backwards with a gasp.

"There's jokes, and then there's jokes." Blinn's gruff voice was fierce. "King Edmund and High King Peter are dead. You ought not mock their memory."

Hand on his stinging cheek, Edmund turned his face towards his voice. "I tell you I _am_ King Edmund. Please, listen to me. I–"

"Well, I'll be," Tinz said. "The boy's blind."

"What?"

One of them took Edmund by the shoulders, no doubt looking into his eyes.

"So he is," Blinn said. "King Edmund indeed. The little rogue is no doubt the slave boy that Calormene lady was searching after the morning we left Tashbaan."

"Do you think?" Tinz asked.

"Well, look at him." Blinn pulled Edmund a little closer. "Dark hair and eyes, pale skin, tall and lanky, about fifteen, blind. Who else might it be?"

"Oh ho ho!" Tinz crowed. "Now we're talking. That lady, now _she_ could do a man some good. None of this mischief-maker's empty oaths. I tell you what, Blinn. I say we take the boy, tie him up so he don't get no funny ideas once we make port. Once we're in Cair Paravel, I say we jump ship, find one that's headed back down to Tashbaan and take him to that lady. From what I heard, she's offering a tidy little sum to anyone who brings the boy back to her. Now he's just dropped into our laps. I think our fortunes are about to change, eh?"

No. No, no, no. Edmund pressed his lips together trying to keep them from trembling. He was close. So close. They couldn't take him back to Tashbaan. Not now. Aslan, please, not now. He had to get home and then he had to do something to get Peter home, too.

"Listen to me, please. I tell you I am King Edmund. Take me to Cair Paravel. Ask anyone there. They know me. Whatever Lady Cemil is offering for me, I'll double it. Triple it."

"Come on, boy," Blinn said. "Might as well give over. How would you know the lady's name if you weren't the boy she's looking for? Make it easy on yourself and on us and do as you're told until we can get you back to your mistress. You'll see it's for the best."

Edmund pulled back from him, but he was already against the rail. There was nowhere to go but into the sea, into that cold blackness that may never again let him go. But he couldn't go back to Tashbaan, not when Narnia was close enough to smell and hear and taste. He had to get to Narnia. He had to get home.

"Come along now," Blinn said, his voice nearly kind. "There's not really no place to run on a ship you know."

Tinz snorted.

"You don't give us no trouble," Blinn continued, "and we won't have to give you none back. Now I can't say fairer than that, eh? Now come along."

He tugged Edmund's arm, and with a low cry, Edmund twisted out of his grasp and vaulted over the rail.

**Author's Note: I hope you liked getting an extra chapter this week. What do you think? **

– **WD**

*****SPECIAL NOTE***  
narniagirl11 made a marvelous trailer for "Counted Among the Traitors" at:  
www. youtube watch?v=zw4jXOGtEmE  
Don't forget to remove the extra spaces! Isn't it wonderful?  
Do tell me what you think of it!**


	27. Proverbs 11:9

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: PROVERBS 11:9

Edmund realized he was surrounded by water. He could feel the darkness– not the ordinary dark of blindness, but deeper and colder. This wasn't the warmer water near the surface of the summer sea. Where was he? What had happened?

He remembered those two sailors, Tinz and Blinn, threatening to take him back to Tashbaan for Lady Cemil's reward. He remembered leaping over the side of the ship, praying somehow Aslan would help him find his way from there. He knew that leap was madness, he'd known it before he made it, but in that moment he could think of nothing else to do. Then he had felt a tremendous blow to his shoulder and to the side of his head.

There had been nothing else until now. Now he was somewhere deep in the sea. Had he hit the side of the ship? Perhaps he had fallen into the sea unconscious and drowned. His head and shoulder ached fiercely, so he wasn't dead. But if he wasn't dead already, why wasn't he drowning now? Why weren't his lungs bursting for lack of air?

He started to swallow and realized there was something in his mouth, something hard and smooth, small and spherical, and he was reminded of when he was a very little boy and had nearly choked on one of his mother's pearls. He lifted his hand to his mouth, meaning to find out what it was, but the movement was stopped by something, someone, grasping his wrist. Then he realized someone's arms were under his, holding him, moving him swiftly through the water. Aslan, what was it? His salvation or his doom?

He didn't know whether or not he should struggle, so he waited. The water was rushing past him now, dragging at his hair, his clothes, his sodden, heavy boots, but they sped on. He didn't know how long, how far, until he realized the water was warmer. It was somehow lighter, and by some instinct, he began to move his arms and legs, fighting upwards. Whatever was holding him moved with him, pushing him, almost lifting him until, with a sudden rush of air and sound, he broke the surface.

He gasped, the air warm and painful in his lungs, and he realized they had been utterly still until now. The spherical object in his mouth rolled out, and whoever was still holding him up caught it against his chin and took it away.

He could hear his own hard breaths and the little moan he gave at each one. He was trying to say something, to call out for whoever might hear, to ask who it was who yet held him up, but all he could manage was these hard, wheezing groans.

Near his ear, he heard a voice, piercing and rich and musical, calling out to someone. A name he knew. He was certain he knew it. Then there was a shout and the sound of galloping hooves through water. Strong arms seized his and pulled him upward, up out of the water, up into a half-crushing embrace. Then they shifted to hold him under the shoulders and knees and cradle him like a child.

"King Edmund."

Edmund started to shake and, in spite of himself, the tears welled into his eyes.

"Oreius."

He managed to whisper that one word, and then he knew no more.

OOOOO

Peter stood, still shackled, looking into Prince Shahrivar's eyes.

"Answer me, High King," the Prince said, his voice still low and silky smooth, the butt end of his riding crop still under Peter's chin. "Your Master, your Great Lion, He has betrayed you, has He not?"

"He would never betray me."

The Calormene barked a harsh laugh. "You stand here beaten and in chains, prisoner of one who could snuff out your life at a whim, and you say you are not betrayed? Then He is too weak to help you. He has stood by helpless while Tash delivered you into my hands."

"If Aslan has allowed me to be brought here, then it is for a reason." Peter looked on the Prince with nothing but cool disdain. "He will make His reasons clear in His own time, not mine."

"All the world believes you dead, High King. How is it you are instead a slave in Tashbaan?"

"As I said, Aslan has His reasons." Peter rubbed his palm over the raised marks in his forearm. "It is enough that He delivered me from death. He is always with me."

"And what of your royal brother, the King Edmund? Is your Lion also with him?"

"I pray so."

"Then he is alive."

Peter pressed his lips together and said nothing.

Shahrivar prodded Peter's breastbone with his riding crop. "Answer me, barbarian. Where is he?"

Peter only clenched his jaw more tightly and was silent.

The Prince slid the handle of the riding crop from his chest to his throat, pressing it lightly into his skin. "Where?"

"Where he is safe," Peter said evenly. _Be safe, Edmund. Please be safe. Don't do anything stupid._

"In Tashbaan?"

"Where he is safe."

Peter steeled himself, ready for a blow across the face or chest, but Shahrivar merely increased the pressure on his throat.

"If you are a slave, it is likely he is as well," Shahrivar mused. "Perhaps that dog of a slave trader knows more of his whereabouts."

Peter caught a hard breath. Serkan knew. He knew Edmund had been sold to Harkan. If he told Shahrivar as much, and there was no reason he would not, it would be nothing for the Prince to have Edmund tracked down. Even over Lady Cemil's objections, Peter had little doubt that the Tarkaan would turn Edmund over if Shahrivar requested it. _No, Aslan, please. Keep him safe. Keep him safe._

The Prince smiled a nasty, knowing smile. "I see he does. I must speak to Serkan before we leave this place. As for the Terebinthians who claimed to have seen your bodies torn and lifeless, they are the liars and cowards I had all along expected they were. That will make them all the easier to dispose of once our plan has been fully implemented. And then you and your brother . . ."

Again he smiled that nasty smile.

Peter kept his expression cool. "If you mean to kill me, then why don't you do it? Or why don't you turn me over to your father?"

"The Tisroc (may he live forever) has no appreciation for irony." The Prince moved his riding crop away from Peter's throat, holding it instead in both hands. "He would merely strike off your head and have done. I, however, find it most amusing that you have fallen into my hands so unexpectedly. It would be a pity to end your visit to my kingdom before you knew what was to happen to yours."

"And what is that?"

"My father the Tisroc (may he live forever) sent a gift to your fair sisters. A box of tiny, luminous winged creatures as lovely to hear as to see."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "What were they?"

"An ancient and very rare creature from deep in our desert. They are called Aned Tahwen."

"Aned Tahwen?"

"Silver Plague. Your Queens were sent thirteen of them. By now they have multiplied into thousands, and those thousands will have Narnia stripped bare within a month unless she surrenders herself to us."

Peter found he could not speak. He could not even swallow down the dryness in his mouth. Narnia. Stripped bare. Oh, Aslan.

"And the Queens," Shahrivar continued, "if they wish to have the cure for this plague and save their subjects, must submit themselves to my father's will. He has already decreed that the Queen Susan shall go to his harem. Along with a portion of the Kingdom, the Queen Lucy was to have been Duke Arren's for his aid in putting Narnia's Kings out of our way, but I see Arren has failed at the little he was given to do. Now there is no reason why the younger Queen should not be mine along with your kingdom."

"Lucy is thirteen!" Peter gasped. "Even if she were grown up, she would never marry you. She would never–"

"I said nothing of marriage, King Peter."

Peter clenched his fists, his whole body trembling with the desire to strike the smug expression from the Prince's face.

"But do not be dismayed, High King, for indeed you shall help save Narnia." Prince Shahrivar smiled once again. "For me."

**Author's Note: Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for her invaluable prose poking. Do let me know what you think, Gentle Reader. What do you think will happen to Peter now? What about Edmund? **

– **WD**


	28. Psalm 33:22

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: PSALM 33:22

As she had done almost every morning for the past five years, Lucy sat on her balcony and watched the sun rise over the edge of the Eastern Sea. But this time, after only a moment or two, she closed her eyes. This time the sun did not show her the rich green of Narnia in summer. This time the fields and forest below her were brown and gray. Dirt and rock. Ravaged and lifeless.

She closed her eyes to shut out the sight. She closed her eyes to hold in the tears. She closed her eyes to turn her thoughts away from grief and towards hope. _Aslan. Aslan, please. Have you forgotten us? Have you–_

She opened her eyes at a faint, piercing cry from the lapping sea below. Almost before it registered that there was someone in the water, she heard Oreius's shout, saw him gallop into the surf and lift that someone out. Who?

But she knew. She knew already even as she hardly dared believe it. She knew the moment Oreius clasped him close and then swung him into his arms, galloping again to bring him into the Cair. To bring him home.

"Edmund!"

She snatched up a robe and ran barefoot into the courtyard. Oreius came to a clattering halt, Edmund limp and pale and still dripping seawater there in his arms.

"Edmund."

She pressed her hands to his still face, and he took a deep, shuddering breath and then huddled closer to the Centaur.

"He's alive." Tears filled Lucy's eyes as she touched tender fingers to the side of his head. "He's hurt. Should I get the cordial?"

"Perhaps we should let the healers examine him first, Majesty. He is bruised and I believe his shoulder is injured, but perhaps–"

"Oreius." Lucy stroked the back of her fingers over her brother's wet cheek. "Is he– Is he blind?"

The Centaur's expression grew even more grim. "I cannot say, My Queen. He was conscious for only a moment when I took him from the water. Perhaps we ought to take him to his chamber now. The healers–"

"Edmund!"

Susan rushed into the courtyard, black hair streaming down her back, her nightgown and hastily donned robe trailing in the dirt of the courtyard, her bare feet peeping out from beneath them. She, too, stroked Edmund's cheek no doubt needing, as Lucy had, to assure herself that he was not just the manifestation of a desperate dream. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but she held herself calm and in control.

"Bring him in, Oreius. I've already sent some of the chambermaids to prepare his bed, and I've sent for the healers. They'll be waiting for us."

With a nod, the Centaur carried Edmund into the palace and up to his chamber. The bed that hadn't been slept in for nearly two months already had fresh sheets and was covered in thick, warmed towels. Oreius laid Edmund down on them, jarring his injured shoulder despite his caution, and Edmund's face contorted in pain. Immediately, Susan and Lucy both reached over to pat his face, to stroke his wet hair, to assure him they were with him and that he was home. Then the healers shooed them all from the room.

Lucy clutched the Centaur's brawny arm. "What happened? How did you find him?"

"I was up on the bluff above the beach, Majesty. I was there before dawn, watching the stars, hoping to see something of what the Great Lion might say through them. And then, when it began to be light, I saw a disturbance in the water, very near the shore. One of the Mermaids called to me, and I realized she was supporting someone. I thought at first it must have been someone she'd rescued from a sunken ship, but then I saw it was King Edmund, returned to us alive."

There was only a flicker of emotion in the Centaur's dark eyes, and then it was gone. His face was as stoic as ever. But, from her balcony, Lucy had seen him lift her brother from the water, had seen him pull Edmund close and then cradle him in his arms as if he were the Centaur's own colt. She and Susan were not the only ones who had grieved and worried over the missing Kings.

"Did he say anything?" Susan asked, her eyes still bright with unshed tears.

"Not really, My Queen. He said my name, so I know he recognized me and knew he was home, but that was all."

Susan gave him an uncertain little smile, and none of them said anything after that. The girls merely clung to each other's hands, waiting, exchanging worried glances when they heard Edmund cry out, a cry that was quickly soothed into silence. But that was all for what seemed like hours.

When she and Susan and Oreius were at last allowed to return, they could tell Edmund had been bathed and tended to. His wet clothes had been taken away, replaced by a dry nightshirt. Lucy feathered her fingers through his hair, tousled and still damp, its blackness throwing the pallor of his skin into sharp relief. She winced at the terrible bruise on the side of his head.

"How is he?" she asked when no one else spoke, careful to keep her voice soft.

The Dryad healer curtsied deeply. "His Majesty was clearly in need of nourishment and managed to take some broth and a little wine. He has a slight concussion and his shoulder was dislocated, but we were able to put the bone back into the socket."

That must have been why he had cried out earlier.

"Oh, Edmund."

At the whispered words, Edmund stirred. "Lucy? Lu?"

He reached one hand out, and she took it, pressing it to her cheek and then to her lips. "I'm here, Edmund. I'm here."

Susan sobbed a little and touched her fingers to his cheek. He smiled faintly.

"Is that you, Su?"

Susan opened her mouth, but no sound came out, and Edmund's forehead wrinkled.

"Susan?"

The two Queens looked at each other, stricken. Blind. He was blind.

Susan threw her arms around him, pressing her face into the curve of his shoulder, soaking his nightshirt with tears.

"Susan," he murmured, managing to put his good arm around her. "I'm all right."

His voice was a little slurred, and Lucy looked up at the Dryad healer, a question in her eyes.

"We gave him a draught to ease his pain. It will make him sleep as well."

"I'm all right," Edmund repeated, and with a watery smile, Susan released him and sat up.

"I know," she said. "You're home. You're home."

Lucy hugged him, too, careful of his injured shoulder. "Edmund," she whispered. "I knew you'd come back. I knew Aslan would send you home."

"Home," Edmund said, his voice soft and indistinct, and his hold on her seemed to slacken. "Home."

Seeing his eyes were closed again, Lucy kissed his forehead, smoothing back the dark hair that had fallen over it. "You're home. You're safe."

She didn't want to upset him after he'd already been through so much, but she couldn't let him sleep quite yet. She looked at Susan, and Susan nodded, knowing there were things they had to know. Questions that must be asked.

"Edmund?"

Edmund started slightly. "Mmmm?"

"Where's Peter? Do you know?"

He turned his face away from her, weary tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "They beat him and then took him away. Don't know where. Oreius? Oreius?"

The Centaur pressed one hand over Edmund's heart. "I am here, Majesty. Be at peace."

Edmund turned desperate, dark eyes towards the sound of his voice. "You have to do something to find him. Please, please find him."

"We will, My King," the Centaur soothed, keeping him from sitting up. "Be at peace."

"Please," Edmund murmured, his eyes fluttering closed again, his struggles fainter now. "Lu, please."

"We will," she assured him, and in another moment he was still.

_Oh, Edmund. _

Tears welled into Lucy's eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Susan was crying again, too, and she touched one soft hand to their brother's face.

"Did he say anything about Peter earlier?" Lucy asked the Dryad, but the healer only shook her leafy locks.

"No more than he said to you, My Queen. Just that the High King must be found."

"What happened to make him blind?" Susan asked. "Did he say?"

"He did, Majesty," the Dryad healer said. "He told us one of the slavers struck him across the back of the head when he and the High King were first taken. The injury has long since healed, but not the blindness. I fear there is nothing we can do to remedy it either."

"Edmund," Susan whispered.

Lucy dashed her tears away with the back of her hand. "I will get my cordial."

"Do you think it will work?" Susan asked. "After so long?"

"I– I don't know." Lucy looked up at Oreius. "It would, wouldn't it?"

"I fear I do not know either, Queen Lucy. I pray that it will." There was something frightening in the Centaur's dark eyes. "If not, I will myself repay the one who took our King's sight from him."

Susan put a gentle hand over his, and Lucy hurried out of the room. A moment later, she was back in Edmund's chamber with her little diamond bottle of fire-flower juice. She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped one hand under Edmund's head, cradling him against her as she unstoppered the bottle.

Susan and Oreius and all the healers watched with anxious eyes as Lucy let a single blood-red drop fall into her brother's slack mouth.

Then they waited.

**Author's Note: Here's another surprise early chapter. I'd love to know what you thought of it and what you think will happen next.**

– **WD**


	29. Proverbs 13:12

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: PROVERBS 13:12

Prince Shahrivar did not slow his horse until he saw one of his messengers hurrying to catch him. The other slaves the Prince had bought were far behind them now, safely in the custody of the Prince's servants. But Shahrivar had decided to take charge of Peter himself, obviously just to make it easier for him to taunt his prisoner with the loss of his kingdom, his freedom and eventually his life.

From time to time, the Calormene had spurred his horse, forcing Peter to run behind or be dragged and strangled by the rope around his neck. Now Peter stood panting in the dusty road, dripping sweat, his hands braced on his thighs as he struggled to catch his breath. He couldn't hear what the messenger said, but, with something smugly pleased in his expression, the Prince dismissed the man and then urged his thoroughbred over to Peter's side.

"Would you care to hear the news I have been brought, High King?"

Still panting, Peter looked up. "News?"

"News, High King, of the King Edmund."

Peter licked his dry lips. _Be safe. Brother, be safe._

"That dog of a slave trader told me who bought the Just King." The Prince took up some of the slack in the rope that was tied to his saddle, the rope that was around Peter's neck. "I merely sent my servant to the Tarkaan, telling him I required the boy at once."

Peter's breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. "Where is he?"

"It seems, High King, that the boy attempted to escape after you were taken away. Of course, he was quickly brought back and punished for his effrontery."

_Edmund, you promised. You promised you wouldn't do anything stupid._

"And then?"

"As you well know, High King, the Tarkaan has little patience with those who wrong him. I am told he immediately sent the boy to the slave market to be sold again. And I believe, at least for the present, I shall leave him where he is."

There was something in Shahrivar's expression, something mocking and cold and pleased, that thrust Peter through with dread.

"Who bought him? Where is he?"

"Where, High King?" The Prince's smile widened. "Where he will have the privilege of . . . amusing some of my noble countrymen. He was purchased by a man called Tahir."

Peter froze. _Tahir. Aslan, no, not Tahir. Not Tahir._

"No," he breathed, grasping the rope that bound him with both hands, twisting it until it cut into his skin. "No."

"You needn't worry for him there, High King. I am certain he will be a great favorite, being so young and so pleasing to the eye." Shahrivar still smiled. "And so unsullied."

Peter twisted the rope tighter, his insides twisting with it.

The Prince's smile turned into a smirk. "Not that he will long be so."

With a strangled cry, Peter leapt on the man, dragging him from his skittish mount, pulling him into the dusty road. In an instant, Peter had the rope looped around the Calormene's neck, pulling it taut, holding it with brute force to keep the prancing horse from bolting and strangling them both, but still keeping it tight enough to make the Prince's eyes bulge in his red face.

"Be still," Peter growled. "Still!"

The prince continued to squirm, and Peter tightened the rope more, giving Shahrivar a rough shake.

"Your men are coming. Order them to stay back, or you die this instant."

"And your brother," the Prince gasped, "dies the instant after."

Peter flinched, and the Prince's expression was once more smug and cunning.

"Did you think, High King, that I would leave him there with the noble Tahir without orders that, should anything happen to me, he be immediately executed?"

Peter shook his head, words failing him. When Shahrivar shoved his hands away from his throat, Peter let him. When the Prince's men reached them and pulled him away from their master, forcing him to his knees at Shahrivar's feet, Peter did not resist.

The Prince smiled down upon him. "So now we have an understanding, do we not, High King?"

Peter still could not speak. The Prince's words hardly registered in his mind. The only thing he could think of was Edmund pleading with him, that first day at the slave market, pleading with Peter to keep him from going to Tahir. _Don't let them._ _You can't let them take me– take me there. Please, Peter._

Peter could again see the fear in those dark, sightless eyes, the white terror in his already pale face as he had begged Peter for death rather than that vilest of servitude. And now– _No. He couldn't be there. Aslan, Aslan, no. Please, I beg you– _

Peter blinked, realizing all at once that the rope had been unknotted and taken from around his raw neck. His shackles had been unlocked and removed. He looked at the Prince, bewildered.

"Go if you like, High King." Shahrivar gestured to his horse. "Take my mount. Go back to your own kingdom, what is left of it. No one will stop you."

Peter stood, wary and trembling. "You–"

"Go where you will, High King." The Prince smiled. "But the moment you leave, I will send someone to end the life of your young brother."

Peter swiped his sleeve over his upper lip, blotting the sudden sweat. Edmund had wanted to die. Rather than go to Tahir, Edmund had begged for death. Would it be what he wanted now? Peter's stomach heaved at the thought of his brother in such a place, but, oh, Aslan, could he coldly walk away from Shahrivar now, knowing Edmund's death would be the result? He balled his fingers into fists, his whole body quivering with the urge to strike the Prince. A terrible fury burned in his blood, but he forced it back and pressed his trembling lips into a hard line.

"What do you want?"

There was a gleam of pleasure in the Prince's dark eyes. "As I said, High King, I merely wish you to help save Narnia, so you may then surrender her to me."

"You told me your father has already arranged for Narnia to be destroyed."

Shahrivar chuckled. "She need not be. If your sisters are wise enough to submit themselves and your kingdom to Calormen before it is too late, then Narnia can be saved. And, under my rule and that of the Tisroc (may he live forever), she shall flourish as never before."

"And all her people will be enslaved."

The Prince shrugged. "They shall be taught to serve the inexorable, the immovable Tash."

"My people would rather die than betray Aslan."

"Progress, High King, always comes at a price."

Peter's fists tightened, but he forced himself to stay calm. "And the Aned Tahwen? The silver plague?"

"There is but one way to destroy the Aned Tahwen, High King, and that cure is as rare as they are. But come, and you shall help find it. Enough of it to destroy all the Aned Tahwen."

Peter looked at him warily. "And then?"

Prince Shahrivar smiled. "Then, High King, we shall see just how badly you wish to live."

OOOOO

Edmund lay still. Eyes closed. Thinking. It was all real, wasn't it? Somehow, after he had leapt from the ship, he had been brought to shore at Cair Paravel. Oreius had found him and brought him home. The healers had tended to his injuries. There had been brief, sharp agony when they had put his dislocated shoulder back into place. Then there had been savory broth and wine that had filled and warmed him inside. There had been his sisters' soft hands and sweet voices, their joyous tears and tender embraces. And there had been their questions about Peter. Peter wasn't home. Peter wasn't safe. That part had been real, too real.

Edmund shifted a little in the bed, his own bed here at home, and he realized his shoulder no longer hurt him. He touched his fingers to the side of his head. The throbbing, bruised spot there seemed to be gone. The cordial. Of course Lucy would have wanted to use her cordial. Little wonder his injuries had been healed. But yet there was one injury he hadn't looked into yet.

Oh, Aslan, let it be–

He opened his eyes, and then tears welled into them. The blackness was as unrelieved as before. For whatever reason, the cordial didn't work on whatever had made him blind. Perhaps because the actual injury that had caused it was long healed. Oh, Aslan. No remedy. He was blind. Now and forever.

Those tears caught in his throat now, and he tried to swallow them down. Someone, please, someone be there. He needed to know he wasn't alone. Please–

"Lucy?" His voice was thin and small in the large chamber. "Is someone there? Please?"

There was a startled breath in the direction of the chair by his bed side, and then two small hands were holding his.

"I'm here, Ed. I'm right here."

The tears came in earnest now, and he curled over against her, breathing in the sweet, wild smell he remembered so well.

"I– I can't see, Lu. Did you give me the cordial already?"

She made a low cry and cradled him close. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Yes. I gave you some while you were sleeping. How is your shoulder?"

"It's fine."

He caught a hard breath and then let it out. That was it then. The cordial was his last hope. He was blind. Forever. No remedy. He pressed closer to her.

"What about your head?" she asked. "Let me see."

He heard her fumble about on the little table beside his bed, and then he heard the sound of flint on steel. There was a spark of yellow and orange and then a little flame. That flame became a glow at the end of a long, white taper, and above that, touched with that same glow, was Lucy's sweet, worried face.

He blinked and for a moment forgot to breathe. "Lucy? Is it– Is it the middle of the night?"

Her eyes met his, and then they too filled with tears. "Can you see? Can you see me?"

Laughing and sobbing and shaking, he put both hands to her shoulders, to her face, to her soft hair, and then he pulled her into his arms and buried his face against her. Blue eyes, pink cheeks, golden hair. Dear Lucy. Sweet Aslan.

"Yes, Lu. Oh, yes. Yes."

**Author's Note: Gentle Reader, do let me know what you thought of this chapter and what you think is coming up. The story is almost over. Are you happy or sad about that? Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for giving this a look before I posted.**

– **WD**


	30. Ecclesiastes 9:18

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY: ECCLESIASTES 9:18

"Here," Lucy said, laughing as she at last released Edmund from her embrace. "You need this."

She handed him the handkerchief from the pocket of her dress. Laughing, too, he pushed it back to her.

"You need it more than I do."

She giggled and dabbed at her eyes. He swiped his face with his sleeve so he could see her better. So he could see her. So he could see.

Tears welled up again, but he determinedly swallowed them down. "Could we have more light, Lu? Lots and lots of light?"

She flung her arms around him again. "Of course. Candles and torches and everything."

He nodded, knowing he was grinning like a fool. "And Susan. Will you bring Susan?"

"Of course." She kissed his cheek and squeezed him tightly once more before releasing him. "Right away."

It seemed hardly an instant later when Lucy returned with a blaze of lights and with Oreius and with Susan. Susan ran to him, weeping as Lucy had and throwing herself into his arms.

"Edmund," she sobbed, kissing his cheeks and his forehead and his nose.

After a moment, he held her away from him, smiling tremulously. "Let me look at you, Su. Let me _see _you."

He stroked her soft black hair and looked into her blue eyes. How beautiful she looked. How beautiful everything looked. Smiling, she tilted her head to one side, almost as if to say he shouldn't be so foolish as to want to see so ordinary a thing as a sister, and then she strained him close again.

"I'm so glad," she murmured. "I'm so glad. And I'm so glad you're home. Home at last. After everything–"

Oreius cleared his throat, and Susan pulled away, sitting on the edge of the bed and blotting her tears with her embroidered handkerchief. Edmund looked up at the formidable Centaur, wondering what he hadn't wanted Susan to say. Maybe it was just his imagination, merely a residual of his concussion. He wasn't certain even now how clearly he remembered the past several hours.

"Oreius. I think– I think you were the one who brought me home."

The General bowed slightly. "The Mermaid brought you home, Majesty. I merely took you from the water and carried you into the Cair."

"And I suppose I have you to thank for things here being as they ought to be still."

Susan and Lucy looked at each other and then at Oreius, but the Centaur remained as stoic as ever.

"I merely assisted the Queens as I was able, My King."

Edmund glanced at Lucy, but she only looked away from him.

"Thank you," he told Oreius finally, and the Centaur gave a slight bow.

"Now, Majesty, you ought to take your rest. We will have much to speak of when you are stronger."

Again the girls looked at each other. What weren't they telling him?

"I am strong enough now," Edmund said, sitting up a little straighter in the bed. "We have to do something to get Peter back. The Tisroc and Duke Arren are planning something against Narnia. It would have been easier to find out what they have in mind if no one knew I was alive, but I don't suppose that can be helped now."

"You need not worry, My King," Oreius said. "It was barely dawn when I saw you in the water. The Mermaid and the healers and those few guards who saw me bring you in have all been sworn to secrecy. As you say, there is a plot afoot. It will be to our advantage for those who are behind it to think yet that you and the High King are dead."

Edmund nodded. "No one in Tashbaan has recognized Peter yet. We can be thankful for that much."

"But those who took you captive in the first place," Oreius said. "The Terebinthians. Surely they–"

"Lord Darreth took pity on us and convinced his brother that as slaves we were as good as dead. Yes, of course they know, but they cannot let the Calormenes know. Not if their part in the plan was to make away with me and Peter in the first place."

"Then it may yet be possible to avoid all-out war with Calormen."

Edmund nodded. "Once we find out where Peter's been sold, it may not be too hard to get back into Tashbaan and spirit him away. Maybe it would be as simple as buying him back."

"If he can be located."

"The Robins," Lucy said, eyes bright. "Ruddock and the others, they're the ones who found you and Peter in the first place. Maybe they can find him again."

"Good," Edmund said. "We'll send them back to Tashbaan to look."

_Meanwhile, _he told himself_, I have a journey of my own to make and, I hope, a quicker way of finding Peter._

OOOOO

Peter slowed to a halt as Prince Shahrivar reined in his thoroughbred. They had stopped at the edge of the desert, a dry, empty place with only a few scrubby trees and no water as far as the eye could see. Two tall Calormenes stood guard beside a group of rather small tents, and two more stood next to an unauspicious hole in the ground. A wizened Calormene woman was bent over a cooking fire, stirring a pot of something that made Peter remember how long it had been since he had last had something to eat, but the smell of it had barely reached his nostrils before he heard squabbling and then a trio of Black Dwarfs popped out of the hole, picks and shovels over their shoulders.

"I tell you, there is no more!" the one in the red hood said. "If you find another grain of it down there, I swear I'll eat the whole lot myself."

Peter blinked. Dwarfs in Calormen? It was unheard of.

Seeing the Prince, the three of them made ungainly little bows.

"How much now?" Shahrivar asked without prologue.

The Dwarf in blue, the shortest and widest of the lot, bowed again. "Enough to fill all but the last of the chests, an it please Your Highness."

The third of the Dwarfs, a sour-faced fellow with yellow braces holding up his breeches, glared at the Prince, his face glistening in the light of the torch he had brought up with him. "We've brought up the last of it, Prince. Are you satisfied? Now will you do as promised?"

"We shall see." Shahrivar took the torch and went to the mouth of the tunnel, motioning to Peter. "Come, barbarian. Come and see."

Peter had to stoop to follow the Prince into the tunnel. They had gone perhaps a hundred feet down it when they encountered half a dozen more Black Dwarfs coming out. They, too, carried picks and shovels grimed with dark, loamy soil. The last two carried a chest between them. And, judging by the way the panted and puffed, it was heavy.

"Let me see," Shahrivar ordered, and the Dwarfs opened it for him.

Inside was that same dark, loamy soil that clung to the Dwarfs' tools. And Peter realized it had a particularly pungent smell. Not offensive, perhaps, but strong. The smell of spice and sulphur and he did not know what.

"What is it?" he asked the Prince.

Shahrivar's dark eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "It is how you will save Narnia . . . and deliver her into my hand."

OOOOO

Edmund sat with his back against the head of the bed, watching the first rays of dawn touch the dark forest. His sisters were nestled against him, fast asleep. Edmund had tried to find out more about what had happened in Narnia during his absence, but the Centaur General had insisted they all get their rest and save explanations for the morning. Once he had extinguished all the lights, leaving only a single candle burning, Oreius excused himself. Soon after, still clinging to Edmund's hands, the girls had grown quiet and still. But he hadn't wanted to sleep.

After so long in the dark, even if he had only dim candlelight, he had wanted to see. He had wanted to see the way the flame flickered yellow and orange at the end of the taper, adding a soft glow to his sisters' sweet, sleeping faces. He had wanted to see his finely made bed linens and goose-down pillows, the four intricately carved posts of his bed and the embroidered curtains they supported. He had wanted to see his own hands and the fine stitching the Mice had done on the sleeves of his nightshirt. However mundane, he had wanted to see everything, everything familiar, everything that meant home and peace and safety. But more than all these, he had wanted to see Narnia herself. Beautiful, verdant Narnia. Cool, sweet, fresh Narnia.

He knew, of course, that he could not stay here long. The moment he was able, he would leave Narnia. Once he had found out what he needed to know, he would go back to where he had been a slave. Back into the dust, into the dense heat, into Calormen. He would go back and find Peter, wherever he was, find him and bring him home. He'd sworn it to the girls before they had fallen asleep. He'd sworn it to himself long before that.

But he could see the pallor in his thin hands and knew by their unsteadiness that he would be of little use to Peter just yet. A week at least, the healers had said, to rest and eat and regain his strength. But, no, he knew he wouldn't wait that long. Tomorrow. This afternoon perhaps. Till then, he would have to think and plan. And pray.

Now, though, he would watch the sun rise over beloved Narnia, and that would bring him healing far more quickly than any amount of rest and food. He smiled faintly to see the glow of dawn brighten, knowing it had already illuminated Lucy's sea on the eastern side of the castle. Each morning, it touched his western woods last, turning the dense foliage from black to gold and then to a hearty mix of greens.

He had never been much of an early riser, and had rarely been eager to see the sun come up. Now he was. Now he watched, heart quickening, a smile touching his lips, waiting to see the light on those leaves, on the lush grasses of the forest floor, on sweet Narnia, but the dawn showed him none of that. He pushed himself away from the pillows, sitting up, and rubbed his stinging eyes, but the vision did not change. The trees, his trees, were winter bare. The ground was brown and dry, all rocks and dirt. What had he come home to?

"Lucy?" He swallowed hard and tried again. "Susan?"

The girls stirred beside him and then both of them sat up.

"The forest," he breathed. "The garden. The hills. What happened?"

The girls looked at each other and then back at him, both of their faces now etched with grief.

"It was the Aned Tahwen," Lucy murmured. "A gift from Tash himself."

**Author's Note: Any ideas what the Dwarfs have? Or where Edmund is planning on going?  
**

– **WD**


	31. Deuteronomy 24:7

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: DEUTERONOMY 24:7

"Not here! Duke Arren and his brother are not here!"

Greywing the Eagle swooped down over the deck of the little merchant vessel Edmund had hired to take him to Terebinthia. The young King frowned and turned to the ship's captain.

"Take us up the coast. What is the next port?"

"Ironwood, sir, but you'll not find anything to please you there." The Lone Islander shook his head. "Let us go on to Fairview. Things there are much more suited to a gentleman's tastes. Ironwood is hardly the sort of place a young man ought–"

"No," Edmund said. "Take us to Ironwood."

He smiled grimly as they came into port. He remembered that place, the last place he had seen before his blinding. And he remembered the ship that was docked there. The one he and Peter had been put aboard when Arren and Darreth had sold them. Serkan's ship.

He instructed the captain to be prepared to set sail the moment he returned. Then, with a few words of instruction to the twin Tigers at his right, he turned to the Horse at his other side.

"Ready, Phillip?"

The Horse shook his bridle. "It's not as if you're going without me."

Edmund smiled faintly. Phillip had hardly left his side since his return to Narnia, and Edmund was glad to have him along now. Once they had the information Edmund needed, Philip would be the perfect one to take into Tashbaan. The other Beasts, the Tigers and Bears and Stags and such would certainly be noticed in Calormen. May as well take Fauns and Nymphs and Centaurs. But a Horse? A Horse was perfect.

Here in Terebinthia, of course, he could bring along a greater variety of companions and not draw too much attention, but for now he needed nothing but his Horse and his faithful Eagle to keep watch over him in case there was trouble.

"The slave trader is coming," Greywing screeched as he sailed overhead. "He's bringing slaves to his ship. About twenty or so."

"Come on."

Edmund led Phillip down the gangplank and then swung into the saddle. He put up the hood on his cloak and then urged the Horse into a canter. Soon he saw Serkan leading a line of slaves– men, women and children, all shackled, guarded by two of his men and his second, Mucahit.

Edmund's eyes narrowed, and he thought back on his last sights before his sight was gone– the faint gleam in Mucahit's close-set eyes when that injured man had begged for mercy and Serkan's untroubled expression as he ordered that man to be thrown overboard. How many deaths had he ordered? And how many had he forced into living death as helpless slaves?

Careful to keep his face shadowed by his hood, Edmund pulled Phillip up in front of Serkan. "Slave trader."

Serkan held up one thin hand to halt the procession. He saw, no doubt, Edmund's fine clothing and the rich trappings on his mount and made a slight bow.

"How may I serve you, noble sir?"

"Are these slaves for sale?"

Again Serkan bowed. "They are, My Lord. May I interest you in one or more of them?"

"You may," Edmund told him. "In fact, I will take all of them."

Serkan rubbed his hands together. "Excellent, My Lord. Most excellent. I will, of course, give you my very best price."

"No," Edmund replied. "You need not worry for that. If you will be so kind as to bring them onto my ship, I will see you are paid in full."

Serkan bowed. "Certainly, My Lord. Certainly." He turned to his men. "Bring them along."

They urged the line of slaves along the road, and Edmund followed behind them watching. There were two little girls, perhaps six and eight years old, sisters by the look of them, the elder trying to hurry the younger along and making her trip instead. Mucahit, being closest to her, yanked her up by one arm and shoved her ahead with a curse. Edmund's eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue until they reached the ship.

Soon the slaves were lined up on the deck, and Serkan and his men were standing before them, the slave trader looking with greedy anticipation at Edmund.

"And now, My Lord, your portion of the bargain."

"Certainly," Edmund told him. "Have your men remove their shackles, if you please."

"All of them?" Serkan asked, one eyebrow raise.

"If you would," Edmund said. "Please."

Serkan signaled his men, and the slaves were quickly unchained.

"Now, if you would," Edmund said, "you and your men put the shackles on."

Serkan looked mildly amused. "My Lord?"

"All of you."

Serkan frowned and glanced at his men, but they could only stand helpless as Peter's Tigers, Bast and Babur stood with bared teeth on either side of them.

"Who are you?" Serkan gasped. "What do you want?"

Edmund pushed his hood back, his eyes fixed on the suddenly pale, pocked face. "Do you remember me, slave trader?"

Serkan's eyes widened. "The young barbarian. I was told you were blind."

"I was, thanks to your ruffian there, but no longer. Just as you will no longer be dealing in human misery." Edmund nodded towards the shackles. "Put them on."

Bast growled low, green eyes fixed on Mucahit, and Edmund drew his dagger.

"All of you," he told Serkan. "You're under arrest for slave trading and for murder."

"You're nothing but a dead nobleman's whelp, by what authority do you dare–"

"If nothing else, by my right before Aslan to stop you from destroying any more lives, and by my right and duty as King of Narnia."

"King," Serkan gasped.

"King Edmund the Just," Phillip said, and the Calormene looked at the Horse in horror.

Babur nudged the shackles at the slave trader's feet. "Put them on."

The Calormenes were quick to comply. Edmund chained Serkan's wrists himself.

"King– King Edmund," the slave trader breathed, and then he paused and the habitual untroubled look came back into his face. "Then the golden one, your brother, he is–"

"High King Peter," Edmund said. "Where is he? I know the Tarkaan brought him back to you to be sold. Who bought him?"

Serkan held up his shackled hands. "If you wish to know, release me."

"Your life is forfeit under the laws of Narnia and Terebinthia," Edmund said, forcing his voice to stay low and even. "Your crimes warrant death. Tell me who bought my brother, and I will not demand that forfeit. Otherwise . . . " He pointed his dagger at Serkan's throat. "As I have myself witnessed your crimes, I can here pronounce your guilt and carry out the death sentence myself." He smiled coldly. "What do you prefer?"

The slave trader glanced back at his now-shackled men and at the Tigers standing guard over them with hungry smiles. He glanced, too, at Phillip standing at Edmund's shoulder, looking as if he were certain the Beast was more demon than Horse. Finally, he looked at the gleaming dagger Edmund held at his throat and licked his dry lips.

"He was bought by Prince Shahrivar, son of the Tisroc (may he live forever)."

"Shahrivar!" Edmund seized the front of Serkan's robe. "Did he recognize Peter? Did he know he was the High King?"

"I– I do not know. He did not seem to. He bought your brother and several of my strongest slaves and, as I believe, took them to work somewhere near the desert. You and the High King both are believed dead some while now. How could the Prince have known?"

"Good," Edmund said, almost to himself. "Good. Very well then." Edmund turned to the captain who had been watching wide-eyed. "Lock these men up below, Captain, if you would."

"Yes, young sir, er, I mean Your Majesty, I–"

"I'll ask you and all your men to keep my title to yourselves for now. Until we've put everything right and the High King is back in Cair Paravel."

"Certainly, sir. Most certainly." The captain ordered his men to take Serkan and the others below, all the while beaming at Edmund. "We're all that glad to know you're not dead as we'd been told all these weeks."

"No, not dead." Edmund grinned at him. "And, I hope, not soon to be. Now take us back to Narnia where we can see our slave traders locked up properly." He smiled at the former slaves huddled together on the deck. "And all of you, once we're in Narnia, we'll make sure you each get back to your homes and families as quickly as possible."

"Lion bless you, Your Majesty," one woman said, and several others added their thanks and good wishes. And the smallest girl, the one who had been watching shyly from the other side of her sister, crept up and hugged him around the legs and then scampered back to her place. Edmund gave her a wink and then turned to the Eagle perched on the rail.

"Fly back to Cair Paravel, good Greywing, and tell the Queens my sisters that we are bringing them some refugees who need looking after."

"At once, My King."

The Eagle shot into the sky and was soon out of sight.

"And after Narnia?" the captain asked.

"Then to Tashbaan as quick as may be," Edmund said. "If we hurry, it may be we'll have the High King back home before they even realize he's gone."

**Author's Note: Thanks to LadyAlambielKnightofNarnia for test-driving this chapter. **

– **WD**


	32. Joshua 1:7

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: JOSHUA 1:7

Peter glared at the smug Calormene Prince standing before him in the dark tunnel. "I will never give you Narnia. Not you. Not your father. Never."

Prince Shahrivar smiled, teeth gleaming white against his dark skin, dark eyes sparkling in the torchlight. "Then the Aned Tahwen will strip it bare. Your people will starve, and we will still take Narnia in the end. You may choose which best suits you. I can be patient."

"And what good would it do you to have Narnia once it had been destroyed?"

The Prince merely shrugged. "It will grow again in time. And perhaps it is best to let your subjects starve. They would make adequate slaves, but it would be better if such unnatural creatures did not even exist."

"And the Aned Tahwen?" Peter asked tightly. "What is to keep them from moving into Archenland and eventually Calormen?"

"This and only this, the Aned Kura, the Silver Cure." The Prince smiled still and thrust his hand into the chest the two Dwarfs carried, into the loamy earth that filled it. The Aned Tahwen will flock to it, calling the others to come as well, eating and eating until they burst from it, but from this bursting will come no more of their kind, only an end." He lifted up a handful of the soil, eyeing it greedily. "The plague will be lifted, the land clean once more. So tell me, High King Peter, shall I have Narnia while there is still something of it left to be saved? Or will you let all of your people perish in the famine that must surely come if the Aned Tahwen are not stopped at once?"

Peter watched as he let the dirt sift through his fingers back into the chest. What could he do? His people would starve if the Aned Tahwen were left unchecked, and any who survived would be easy prey for those who would conquer them.

"And if I surrender Narnia to you, my people will just as surely perish as Calormene slaves."

The Prince shrugged. "Those who cooperate shall find their lives productive and well ordered. Under my rule and the rule of my father the Tisroc (may he live forever), Narnia shall prosper as never before."

"For you. Not for her people."

"Naturally." Shahrivar gave him a sly smile and then nodded curtly at the Dwarfs. "Carry the chest outside and put it with the others. You say this is the last?"

"It is, Mighty Prince."

"Very well," the Calormene said. "Go, and you shall have your reward."

Soon the Dwarfs were gone, and Shahrivar turned again to Peter.

"Now, High King, what do you choose? Will you give me Narnia now or let me take her later when your people are starved and helpless?"

Peter gritted his teeth. What choice did he have? He was High King of Narnia. All his subjects were his to rule. To provide for. To protect. His heart beat faster inside him. To die for.

Aslan had given Narnia to him and his brother and sisters, not to be served but to serve. And with it, He had given them a deep and abiding love for every tree and every stream and every Animal. He would not just turn them over to slavery and death. He could not.

Peter rubbed his hand over the raised places in his forearm. _His and not my own. _He had failed the Lion in letting his despair put those marks there. He would not fail Him now. No matter the cost.

_Did you think, High King, that I would leave him there with the noble Tahir without orders that, should anything happen to me, he be immediately executed?_

He kept his expression stiff, eyes flinty as they looked into the Calormene's. But inside him his heart churned and his blood beat hard in his veins. _Edmund? Oh, Aslan, not Edmund._

_Be strong and very courageous._

Peter caught his breath. That was the Lion's voice. He knew it. Even after so long, he could never mistake it.

_Please, Aslan_, he prayed silently. _Edmund– _

_Your brother is in My keeping. The fate of Narnia lies in yours. Be strong and very courageous._

"Well, High King?" Shahrivar smirked. "Your choice? Or shall I turn you over to my father the Tisroc (may he live forever) and leave that choice with him?"

Peter closed his eyes for only a second, releasing Edmund to the Lion's care. Now. It was now. All the time he had waited, waited to escape his captors, waited for Aslan's direction, and it had finally come. He could not fail Him now. He would not.

He straightened his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height. Prince Shahrivar was tall, but now Peter towered over him.

"Here is my choice, O Prince of Calormen. You shall not have Narnia. You shall not have her people. Not now. Not later."

The Prince took a step backward, and his smirk faltered. "Then your subjects will starve until the Queens your sisters give themselves up to Calormen or starve themselves. I will send word for your brother to be executed where he is. And you, High King Peter the Magnificent, you will die at the feet of my father the Tisroc (may he live forever) before the court at Tashbaan, where all may see and know Tash is victorious over your tame Lion."

"No."

Shahrivar took another step backward, his face reddening. "No? You are a slave. You have no authority here. You can only watch as what I have said comes to pass."

"No," Peter said again, striding forward, making the Prince take two more steps back. "I am no slave but Aslan's chosen King. And by His authority I tell you you shall not have Narnia. True, your men may kill me, but it will not be before I have ended your life. Here and now. You, Prince Shahrivar, will never set foot in my kingdom."

The Calormene shrank back deeper into the tunnel. "My guard–"

"Your guard is outside, Prince Shahrivar. They cannot hear you."

"Your brother–"

"My brother is held between the paws of the Lion. Aslan and not you holds his fate. Now I ask _you_, O Resplendent Prince, what will you choose? Give me the cure for the Aned Tahwen and let me return to my kingdom or you will never see the light of day again."

The Prince scowled, his arms crossed petulantly over his chest. "Go then. Go. I had always heard the bond between you and your brother was great. That either of you would die for the other. I see that is a lie. You happily toss your brother's life into the ash heap just so you may keep your throne and your power. But go. I care not."

Peter took a menacing step towards the Calormene. "Give me your dagger."

Shahrivar cringed away from him. "Wh-why? Do you mean to kill me after all?"

"I mean to hold you to your word. I mean to keep you prisoner until I am past your guards and free of here. Give me your dagger."

The Prince drew the curved, jewel-encrusted dagger from his belt, holding it out for Peter to take. Just as Peter reached for it, Shahrivar slashed at him, grazing his arm and shoulder as Peter leapt back from him.

Eyes blazing, Peter lunged at him. Shahrivar scrambled back into the tunnel, into the unlit void, and Peter raced after him, following the thud of his footsteps in the soft earth. Then he realized they had stopped.

"Shahrivar?"

His only answer was the echo of his own voice. The Calormene was lying in wait for him, waiting to strike. How far? Which side? _Aslan, show me._

Peter stood motionless, holding his breath, feeling the sting in his fresh cuts. There. About three feet ahead and to his right. Just the slightest rustle of dirt. Bless Oreius for all the training he had put him and his brother through. He felt another pang at the thought of Edmund. No, he was in the Lion's keeping. He could be in no better place. Peter was the High King, and Aslan had told him to be strong and courageous. He had a task to do, here and now.

"Shahrivar?"

There was perfect silence. Then, with a shout, the Prince leapt at him from the darkness. Peter managed to shove him aside, feeling another grazing cut to his arm, and then they were grappling in the loose, dank earth, the only sound their harsh breathing and flailing limbs against the ground. Shahrivar had the dagger's heavy hilt in both hands now, but Peter held him by the wrists, struggling to take the weapon from him.

Abruptly, the Calormene pulled back, twisting, breaking free and then throwing himself once more at Peter. Peter caught him again, this time by the forearms.

"I'll kill you," Shahrivar hissed in his ear, trying his best to bring the dagger closer. "Here and now. And then the body of the High King of Narnia shall be dragged through the streets of Tashbaan until it reaches the Temple of Tash and is hung up so all may know that the great god of the Calormenes is mightier than the demon Lion of the Narnians."

Peter's arms shook, his stinging wounds throbbed, and the blade moved closer to his throat. _Aslan, please._

_Be strong_, the Lion whispered in the darkness. _Be very courageous_.

Breath coming hard, Peter gathered all his strength. In one desperate motion, he slid his hands again to Shahrivar's wrists and twisted them, trying to force him to drop the dagger. The Calormene threw himself at Peter, throwing all his weight behind his blade. Peter slid his body to one side, twisting harder, flinging his writhing opponent onto the ground. The Prince gave a sudden gasp, and for a moment there was silent stillness.

"Shahrivar?"

Peter heard a low moan and then a few gasping breaths, and he felt his way farther into the darkness towards them.

"Shahrivar?"

His only answer was a sobbing curse.

Peter's hands came in contact first with dirt and then with the warm stickiness of blood. Calormene blood. The Prince hissed at the touch and then cursed again.

"Dog of an infidel."

He groaned and gasped once more, and Peter realized he had pulled the dagger from his body. Then, to Peter's amazement, the Prince staggered to his feet.

"Give me the dagger," Peter ordered, not knowing how much strength the Calormene might still have.

Another curse came from the darkness, and Shahrivar lunged weakly at him. Peter quickly disarmed him, but the Prince shoved him backwards with a sudden burst of strength.

"You– and your Lion– be condemned– to the fiery pit."

Peter heard him stumble farther into the tunnel, into the unrelieved blackness, and started after him.

"Shahrivar!"

_Stay, Peter. _Again it was Aslan's voice. _No farther._

Peter stopped where he was, drawing hard breaths, his wounds thrumming with pain.

"Shahrivar? Come back."

"I'll surrender myself to no barbarian!"

The Prince's voice was weak and distant. Where did he think he could go from there? Surely it was only a dead end or a–

There was a sudden scrabbling of rock and dirt and a scream. A scream that ended abruptly.

"Shahrivar!"

Peter stumbled back towards the opening of the tunnel, back to where a single torch still burned. He snatched it up and ran back down the tunnel to where he had heard the scream.

There was only a dark pit. Even when he held the torch over it, he could not see the bottom.

**Author's Note: Do forgive me, Gentle Reader, for the long delay since my last post. Despite my best efforts, real life (whom may the gods utterly reject) interfered with my playing in Narnia. I will try to not let it happen again. Do let me know what you thought of this chapter. What will Peter do now? Where is Edmund?**

**Oh, and a BIG thanks to narniagirl11 for the wonderful book cover. Isn't it perfect?  
**

– **WD**


	33. Psalm 18:17

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: PSALM 18:17

"Shahrivar?"

Peter peered into the blackness of the pit where the Calormene Prince had fallen, seeing nothing by the flickering light of the torch. He broke off a piece of a dry tree root that stuck, twisting, out of the tunnel wall, and touched it to the flame he held. It blazed into life and he dropped it into the pit. The light went down and down, growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared.

"Don't look for that one to come out again. Not alive at any rate."

Peter whirled around at the gravelly, unfamiliar voice, drawing the dagger he had stuck into his belt. The Dwarf with yellow braces stood there, a pick axe in one hand and a blazing torch in the other.

"If he went down _that_, precipitous like, he'll not be back," the Dwarf said glumly. "We dug fifty, sixty feet down, we did, for the particular earth he was looking for. Now I suppose he'll not be wanting it."

Peter nodded, still keeping his dagger handy. "I suppose not."

"And I suppose we'll not be getting the reward we've worked months for. Typical. Do the work and get fobbed out of the pay, that's the way it is for us Dwarfs. Time out of mind."

"What did he promise you?"

The Dwarf shrugged. "A place of our own, land we could mine, metals we could forge, and rule of our own. No Kings and Queens. No Aslan. The Dwarfs for the Dwarfs as it ought to be."

Peter fought to keep his expression calm. "You are Narnian Dwarfs. Why would you sell yourselves to Calormen for that? What wrong have your Sovereigns done you? More than that, what wrong has Aslan done you?"

Again the Dwarf shrugged. "Not wrong as such. Just not giving us our due."

Peter nodded. "You mean not letting you always have your own way at the expense of everyone else."

The Dwarf's only answer was another shrug.

Peter looked at him for a moment. He'd dealt with mercenaries before.

"Very well, Dwarf. Perhaps I can make all this worth your while."

"You?" The Dwarf guffawed. "What's a slave got to offer us?"

"If I am not mistaken, you're the leader of these people," Peter said. "What is your name?"

"Morlin," the Dwarf said, his face suddenly shrewd with interest. "Why?"

"As you say, the Prince is not coming back. He won't be able to give you what he promised, if that was ever his intention in the first place."

The Dwarf scowled but said nothing.

"Do you and your people wish to stay here in Calormen?" Peter asked.

Morlin snorted. "No fear! The sooner this sandpit is behind us, the better."

"And how do you plan to get back to Narnia now? There is no way you can leave this country without being seen. Prince Shahrivar the Resplendent is dead. You and your people were the cause."

"Here now–"

"Some will say so," Peter insisted. "Dwarfs? Here in Calormen? You know the Tisroc will not stop to hear you out before he has you all roasted on spits alive."

The Dwarf's eyes widened. "You've doomed us all!"

"No, no." Peter shook his head, a touch of a smile now on his lips. "If you and your people will do just as I say, we will all be in Narnia with the cure before they know we've gone. And I can assure you, you will be rewarded for your aid. By the High King himself."

"The High King?" Morlin scoffed. "The High King is dead."

"No," Peter said calmly. "I'm not quite yet."

The Dwarf scowled and opened his mouth to protest. Then he narrowed his eyes, searching Peter's face. "You stay right there."

He scurried out towards the tunnel's opening. A moment later he was back, bringing with him the Dwarf who wore blue.

"You've seen him, Burbrik," Morlin said. "You tell me if it is or isn't."

"Go on. The High King's dead. Has been these two months or more."

Morlin shook his head. "Says not. Says he can get us back to Narnia and will reward us as well. It's worth at least a look, eh?"

The one called Burbrik waddled over to Peter, holding his torch high as he looked him up and down. "Looks a bit thin. For the High King, I mean." The Dwarf gave a disdainful sniff. "Not so magnificent as one might hope."

"Never mind all that," Morlin said. "Is it or isn't it?"

Burbrik frowned, considering. "Let him speak."

The was a touch of hauteur in Peter's slight nod. "What would you have us say, Master Dwarf?"

The Dwarf looked a bit taken aback to hear such courtly language from a Calormene slave.

"And do you not remember us, Dwarf Burbrik, from two winters ago when you came to Cair Paravel for aid to your people?" Peter asked. "And we and our brother and sisters sent you back with food and wine and clothing to keep you until you could replant the fields the Giants had burned the harvest before?"

Burbrik's mouth dropped open and he fell to one knee, pulling Morlin with him. "Your Majesty, p-pardon us our foolishness." He snatched off his own cap and his companion's. "We were told you were dead. We could not possibly know–"

Peter smiled slightly. "We've no time for such things now. I must get back to Tashbaan at once and then to Narnia. So what say you, good Dwarfs? Shall we join together? Will the rest of your people agree?"

"They will, High King," Burbrik said. "We cannot leave here on our own, and it is death for us to stay."

"Very well. Master Morlin, can you call the rest of your people in here? How many more are you? Six? Seven?"

"Seven, Sire," Morlin said, still looking a trifle dazed. "But how can we possibly–"

"Leave that to me. Aslan with us, we will make a way home. How many guards did the Prince have here?"

"Only four," Burbrik said. "Just enough to keep watch and help us if need be. They're set to watch for intruders rather than to guard us. There are four others watching over the slaves he brought with him today. The rest of his people were sent back to Tashbaan."

"Excellent." Peter considered for a moment. "There are nine of you Dwarfs. With me, that makes ten, and only eight guards."

"But they are armed, Sire," Morlin said.

"I have this dagger. And you Dwarfs have shovels and picks."

It was quick work for Morlin to summon all of his people back into the tunnel on the pretense that Shahrivar had more work for them to do. Once they were apprised of the situation, they threw their support to the High King, earlier grievances apparently forgotten. Then, with the Dwarfs at his back, Peter emerged from the tunnel.

"Where is our Prince?" one of the guards said, brandishing his curved blade.

"He has gone to meet your Tash," Peter told him gravely. "Unless you wish to join him, let us pass."

"Cursed barbarian," the guard spat. "You have murdered the son of our Tisroc (may he live forever). You shall not pass unless it is through us."

The Calormenes set upon Peter and the Dwarfs and, though they were fierce fighters, so were the Narnians. Soon all of the guards and one of the Dwarfs lay dead. Two of the Dwarfs were badly hurt, but expected to recover. Peter had a deep cut across his shoulder, but Burbrik bound it up after he had tended to his kinsmen.

"We must be away from here before anyone knows what's happened and comes looking for us," Peter told the Dwarfs. "Morlin, you and some of your people put the Calormene bodies down the pit with the Prince. I expect you'll want to bury your cousin elsewhere."

Morlin nodded solemnly. While he and three of the Dwarfs attended to the burials, Peter and the others went to free the slaves, including the old woman who had been brought to cook for them.

"Go," Peter told them once they were unshackled. "Quiet and quick. And don't let anyone know you were ever here."

They all disappeared, leaving only Peter and the Dwarfs.

"Now, Sire, and begging your pardon," Morlin said. "What are we to do? We can never go out of this desert and through Tashbaan to the docks without being seen and known. And you look like no Calormene, slave or free. How are we to get the cure and ourselves back to Narnia?"

Peter looked around the now-deserted camp. "There's a wagon and horses to take away the chests with the cure in it and canvas to cover them. If you and your kinsmen will stay still and silent under it, I will drive us all to the docks and safety."

"And you, Majesty?" Burbrik asked. "Your height is conspicuous enough, but the hair–"

Peter looked at the things that had been left behind by the guards and found a sturdy cloak. "I will wear this and keep the hood up until we are well away. But come now. It is urgent we get back to Tashbaan at once."

They quickly packed the chests into the wagon. Then the Dwarfs scurried under the canvas and Peter tied it down. Afterwards, cloaked and hooded, he climbed up himself and, with a click of his tongue and a shake of the reins, he urged the horses forward towards Tashbaan.

He would get to Edmund. He had to. And then they would find some way back to Narnia.

_Aslan_, he prayed, _please don't let me be too late_.

**Author's Note: Thanks to LadyAlambielKnightofNarnia for looking this over before I posted. So what do you think happens next?**

– **WD**


	34. Acts 24:15

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: ACTS 24:15

Peter drove the wagon as quickly as he could without drawing unnecessary attention to himself or his cargo. The Dwarfs and the cure for the Aned Tahwen, the Silver Plague, were concealed in the back, and the growing darkness would help them stay unnoticed. All Peter had to do now is find Edmund and bring him home.

All.

He laughed, softly and totally without humor. All he had to do was make his way through the city of his greatest enemy, the Tisroc (may he wither forever), find out if his brother was still alive and where he was being held, take him from his captor and, without being noticed, get himself, Edmund, eight Dwarfs and several large chests of rare earth to the docks. That done, he had to find a ship whose captain would believe a pair of ragged, battered and penniless slaves were truly the long-dead Kings of Narnia and agree to take them and the others all back home before the Calormenes found them out.

That was all.

No, he corrected himself. He didn't have to do _all_ that. Not all at once. He had only to take the first step. The rest would come later. First, he just had to find Edmund.

_He will have the privilege of . . . amusing some of my noble countrymen. He was purchased by a man called Tahir._ Prince Shahrivar's words had run again and again through Peter's mind since the Calormene had spoken them. _Did you think, High King, that I would leave him there with the noble Tahir without orders that, should anything happen to me, he be immediately executed?_

"Aslan, please," Peter whispered. "Don't let it have happened yet. Please let me get there in time."

From hearing the Tarkaan's other slaves talk, he knew roughly where Tahir's house was, in the seedier part of Tashbaan, not far from the docks. But how would he free Edmund once he found him? No doubt Tahir had a house full of guards trained to protect him and see that none of his wretched captives escaped.

"Aslan, show me what to do." He listened, straining again to hear that voice he knew so well. "Show me how–"

_Go to the lady._

Peter caught his breath. The lady? It had to be Lady Cemil. What other lady here in Tashbaan had ever shown him and his brother kindness? But Edmund–

_Go to the lady_, the Lion's voice said again, and Peter's hands tightened on the horse's reins.

The Tarkaan's palace lay just off the road he was on now, the road that led eventually to the docks and escape, but why would Aslan send him there? Perhaps Lady Cemil had herself somehow rescued Edmund from Tahir's clutches. Perhaps she had bought him and he was safely with her again. Or, oh, Aslan, perhaps everything Shahrivar had said was a lie, a lie meant to force Peter into doing as he wished. Perhaps Edmund was there still and had never left.

Peter urged the horse into a trot. The Tarkaan's house was also guarded, but he knew it well. And the guards tended to be lax. There was seldom any need for them there in the heart of the city. Peter was certain he could slip past them and get in to speak to Lady Cemil, perhaps even to Edmund. What he would do then, he did not know. The lady was not likely to give Edmund up willingly, not doting on him as she did. But Aslan had told Peter to go to the lady, and to the lady he would go.

It was near midnight when Peter pulled the wagon into the dense grove of trees near the Tarkaan's palace.

"Stay here," he told the Dwarfs, tucking the canvas more securely over the wagon bed, and then he drew his cloak more tightly around himself. The moon and stars gave light enough to see by, but it wasn't especially bright, and he had no trouble slipping in through the garden gate and stealing towards Lady Cemil's chamber. He froze when he saw someone sitting on the edge of the well and then smiled to see it was the lady herself. Her head was bowed, and he realized she was crying.

_Go to the lady_, Aslan prompted once more, and Peter crept up to her, silent and swift.

"Lady Cemil?"

She gasped softly at his whisper and sprang to her feet, but he grabbed her arm, shushing her.

"Please, Noble Lady, I only wish to speak to you."

He turned so the moonlight lit his face, and she put one hand to her mouth.

"Master Perren." Her eyes were wide with fear, not of him but for him. "You mustn't be found here. If you've run away from your master, you'll be caught and punished. You must get away while you can."

"My brother," Peter asked, keeping his voice low. "Where is he?"

She pressed her hand over his, tears welling into her dark eyes. "Oh, the poor boy."

Dread stabbed through Peter's heart. Had he been sold to Tahir after all? _No, please, Aslan, no._

His hold on her tightened. "Where is he?"

"He– he ran away after you were sold again. I had my people searching everywhere and offered a most generous reward for any news of him. I could learn nothing until, just today, two sailors came and told me about a boy who had stolen onto their ship here at Tashbaan."

"Was it Ed– Was it my brother?"

"It must have been," she sobbed. "They described him so perfectly and said he mentioned my name. It must have been."

"Where did they take him?"

She closed her eyes, shaking her head and leaning on him so heavily that he was afraid she would faint.

"Where?"

"When they told him they would bring him back here for the reward, he–" She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. "He leapt over the side of the ship and was lost."

For a moment everything stopped. Heart, lungs, mind, everything froze, and Peter knew only that one word. _Lost_.

_Lost_.

Then, sudden as a bitter blast of wind through a newly opened window, pain blew through him, searing, biting, burning. _Go to the lady_, the Lion had told him. Was it for this? Oh, Aslan, was it only for this?

He drew three hitching breaths, but he allowed himself only one nearly soundless cry. Then he hardened his expression. He had the girls to think of. And Narnia. They needed him. Edmund was safe in the paws of the Lion. Edmund was– Edmund–

Lady Cemil looked up at him, pitying tears streaming down her face. "I prayed, oh, may the great Tash forgive me, I prayed to his Lion that I might know what had befallen him. And this is my answer."

_This is my answer._

The words rang in Peter's ears, but he pushed them aside. There would be time enough for grief, for mourning, when he was home, when Narnia was safe. Then he and Lucy and Susan–

He drew himself up straight and tall as if he were standing in the throne room at Cair Paravel. "I thank you, Lady Cemil, for telling me this and for the kindnesses you showed him and me while we were here." He touched a grave kiss to her hand. "I must go now."

"Not so quickly, barbarian."

Peter turned. The Tarkaan and two of his guards were standing between him and the gate. Between him and escape.

"Why have you come back here?" Hakan asked. "Have you not done damage enough?"

Peter did not flinch before him. "I came to find my brother."

"You and your brother have brought only misery to my house. The curse of Tash upon both of you and upon that day I bought the two of you and saved you from harsher masters."

Peter thought of Edmund that day in the slave market, scared and lost and blind. And now he was gone, and this man dared call down curses on him?

"We did you no wrong, Tarkaan. My brother–"

"Your brother ran away." The Tarkaan's dark eyes flashed. "My lady and mother made him as her own son, and he repaid her with thankless treachery. You see how she has wept for his loss. May the gods repay him tenfold the grief he laid upon her heart, and you for the trouble you brought between me and my Tarkheena."

"I never–"

"Curse you, boy, I know that now! After you left, she made a fool of me with another of my slaves, and I have sent her, head and feet bare, back to her father's house to live in shame."

Even in his own grief, Peter pitied the pain in the Tarkaan's eyes. "I'm sorry. I know you loved her."

The Tarkaan spat on the ground. "She is dead to me. Speak of her no more."

Peter glanced at Lady Cemil who stood before him, pleading with her eyes. "As you say, Noble Tarkaan. I wish only to leave here in peace."

Hakan snorted. "You are a slave. You must be returned to your master. That is the law." He nodded to his men. "Put him in chains."

Before they could obey, Peter shoved the lady to one side and leapt on the Tarkaan. In an instant, his dagger was at Hakan's throat.

"Stand down, both of you," he told the guards. "Stand down or your master dies."

"Wait! Don't!"

Peter caught a hard breath. He knew that voice. Oh, Aslan, he knew that voice! He started to tremble as a tall, slender shadow emerged from the trees near the gate, leading his band of Dwarfs, and then the tears sprang to his eyes.

"Ed."

**Author's Note: Thanks to Ariel of Narnia for looking this over and objecting to the objectionable. **

– **WD**


	35. John 16:22

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: JOHN 16:22

"Ed," Peter said again, blinking back the tears that blurred his vision, the hand that still held the dagger to the throat of the Tarkaan now unsteady. "You– You're–"

"Not now," Edmund said, motioning to the Dwarfs who had accompanied him. "We have to get out of here first."

The Dwarfs surrounded the Tarkaan's two guards and quickly disarmed them, looking pleased to be the new owners of a pair of sleek, curved daggers. Morlin and Burbrik were already armed, and Peter could only assume those daggers were Edmund's. He sheathed his own weapon as the two chief Dwarfs swiftly took charge of the Tarkaan.

Morlin nodded at Peter. "We'll see to this one until you decide what you want done with him, Your–"

Edmund cleared his throat loudly.

"Until you decide what you want done with him," the Dwarf amended, looking at the Tarkaan, and Hakan looked warily back at him, clearly unsure what these unnatural creatures intended to do to him.

Immediately, Peter was at his brother's side, laughing and crying at once and taking him into a tight embrace.

"Edmund," he gasped, his voice too soft for anyone else's ears. "You're alive. You can see."

Edmund nodded against his chest, that so-familiar smirk on his face. "I can see you're still a great, sobbing baby." He clung to Peter for a moment and then pushed away. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Ready to go home." Peter grinned a little to see a glimmer of tears in his brother's dark eyes. "How did you get here? They said you were– that you jumped from that ship and– and–"

Peter shook his head, his voice choking down low in his throat, and he pulled Edmund close again. Then, he remembered he was not the only one who had been grieving. He was not the only one who had thought Edmund was forever lost.

"Edmund," he murmured, and he turned his brother towards the lady who had been standing there waiting, watching him with overflowing eyes.

Edmund immediately went to her, taking both of her hands in his, dropping to one knee as he pressed them to his lips. "O Most Noble Lady Cemil–"

"Edrret," she breathed, and then she pulled him up into her arms, kissing his hair and his forehead and his cheeks. "Edrret, Edrret."

She held his face between her hands, studying it, and his lips trembled into a smile.

"I knew it must be you, Lady. I can read the kindness in your face as much as I had always heard it in your voice."

She stroked the dark fringe back from his forehead. "Your beautiful eyes, child. You can see. And you've come home to me."

She clasped him close again, and for a moment he returned the embrace. Then he pulled back from her.

"Yes, Lady, I can see, but no, I have not come back to you. Not to stay. Only to find what had happened to my brother."

Her face crumpled again into tears, and Edmund glanced helplessly back at Peter. Peter could see he did not want to repay this woman's kindnesses with pain.

"O Noble Lady," Peter said, making his voice as gentle as he was able. "We both bless you for all you have done for us, but our sisters are waiting for us. Our ki– our home needs us. You said you prayed that Aslan would show you what had happened to my brother. You have your answer. He is well and alive and going home. If you love him, and truly, lady, I know you do, you will rejoice and not grieve at this."

Edmund looked at her, a fervent light in his eyes. "You prayed that Aslan would show you? Aslan?"

Her dark lashes fell to her flushed cheeks. "Your words when you spoke of Him, I could hear the truth of them in your voice. And even–" She traced gentle fingers across his cheek. "Even when your eyes could not see, there was His truth in them. I prayed that He had kept you safe in all this, and I see He has." She took a shuddering breath and then forced a tight smile. "And your brother is right, child. Your Lion has made you whole and given you your freedom. I will not hinder you or ask that you stay."

He hugged her close and pressed a tender kiss to her cheek, and then he turned to Peter. "We'd better go."

Peter nodded and then, drawing his dagger once more, took hold of Hakan's arm. "If you will be so good, O Noble Tarkaan, we request that you accompany us until we are well away."

The Calormene only gave him a stony glare in response, but his mother fell to her knees at Peter's feet.

"Please, I beg you, Master Perren. Do not also take my son from me."

Peter's hard expression softened. "I give you my pledge that he will not be harmed so long as he does as he is told." He turned to Hakan. "Come now."

The Tarkaan gave him a cold nod, but Edmund stopped him.

"Please, Peter. Let him go."

"Ed–"

"For me, Peter, please. Let him stay here." Edmund glanced at the lady who had taken hold of his sleeve, her dark eyes begging. "She's lost enough as it is."

"Don't be stupid," Peter hissed. "He'll have us back in chains before we've been gone five minutes."

"All we have to do is get down to the docks," Edmund said, his voice too low for anyone but Peter to hear. "I have a ship waiting. The Tarkaan is a man of honor, whatever else you might say of him. If he will swear to say nothing, do nothing, until morning . . . ?"

Peter sighed. He could never resist that pleading look in his brother's eyes, those eyes he had expected he would never see again.

"If he will swear." Peter turned to Hakan with the cool almost haughty expression that served him well in the throne room at Cair Paravel. "O Noble Tarkaan, my brother tells me that you are a man of honor. The gracious lady, your mother, has often said you are a just man. I have seen these truths with my own eyes, even when we two have been at odds. If you will give me your oath, upon your honor, that you will not pursue us, neither you nor anyone you send, and that we may go our way in peace, I will take that pledge and ask no more. We mean no harm to anyone. We merely wish to go. Will you swear you will in no way and by no means hinder us?"

The Dwarfs, Morlin and Burbrik, exchanged an incredulous glance, and the rest of their kin murmured among themselves but said nothing aloud.

Hakan looked at them, eyes narrowed, and then at Peter. "And you will take my word and nothing else in pledge?"

For a moment, Peter studied his face. Then he nodded.

"I beg you, O Most Noble Son, do as he asks." Lady Cemil held up her hands in supplication. "For my sake, let them go in peace."

For a long moment, Hakan was only still and silent. Then he bowed his head.

"As you ask, and upon the inviolable altar of Tash and by the pure, pale light of his sister Zardeenah I do swear it. You and all yours are free to go."

Peter nodded in acknowledgment and backed away from the Tarkaan, his dagger still in his hand. "Get your people back to the wagon," he said to Morlin. "Come on, Ed."

The Dwarfs scurried away, but Edmund merely helped Lady Cemil to her feet and then embraced her one final time.

"I swear I will see you again. Someday." He kissed her cheek and then held her close. "Until then, may the Lion be with you."

She followed him with longing eyes until he disappeared into the trees.

Still with a wary eye on Hakan and his men, Peter made a slight bow before the lady. "We will not forget your kindness, Most Noble Lady, and I trust Aslan will repay it to you a hundredfold." He bowed once again. "Tarkaan."

Then he, too, vanished into the darkness.

**Author's Note: Okay, there they are: Peter and Edmund in trouble together again. What do you think? Yes, there are a lot of explanations and things yet to come. Stay tuned for more. Thanks to Lady A for looking this over for me.**

– **WD**


	36. Proverbs 21:15

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: PROVERBS 21:15

Peter hurried out the gate and back to where he had left the wagon with the cure for the Silver Plague. The Dwarfs were already grumbling and jostling each other under the canvas that covered the wagon bed, and Edmund sat smirking on the seat. In the road beside him stood a chestnut-colored Horse.

The Horse snorted and whinnied softly. "High King."

"Phillip." Peter stroked the Horse's nose and then swung up into the wagon next to Edmund, staring at him, hardly believing he was real. Alive. Whole.

"Edmund, how–"

"Don't you think we'd better get going before we're seen?" Edmund pulled Peter's hood up, concealing his fair hair. "And let's not advertise, eh?"

With unsteady hands and a click of his tongue, Peter started the horses, and Philip trotted alongside them.

"Edmund," Peter said again once they were on the main road leading down to the docks. "How did you get here? And with my Dwarfs?"

"Are they yours?" Edmund asked with a smirk.

Peter gave him a lopsided grin. How he had missed his snarky little brother. "Well, they're not Shahrivar's anymore."

"Prince Shahrivar?"

"You remember him?"

Edmund nodded. "From the banquet a while back. One of the Tisroc's sons. What's he got to do with this?"

"First tell me how you got here. How could you have found me?"

Edmund shrugged. "I knew I had to come back to Tashbaan to find you. I thought I'd go back to the slave market and see if I could buy some information, but as soon as I set foot off the ship, I heard Aslan speak to me. It was as clear as I have ever heard Him."

"What did He say?"

"'Go to the lady.'"

"He–" Peter drew a shuddering breath, and he blinked back sudden tears, hardly able to see the dark road before him. "Those words exactly?"

"Exactly. I didn't know what good it would do. When you were first taken away, I asked Lady Cemil where you would be taken once you were sold, but she didn't know. She said there was no way to tell. I didn't know what good it would do to ask her again now, but I came anyway." Edmund glanced over at the Horse still trotting by the wagon. "Phillip and I did. When we got to the Tarkaan's palace, we saw the wagon in the trees and the Dwarfs creeping towards the gate into the garden. We quickly sorted out who I was and who they were and why Narnian Dwarfs were in Calormen at all, and we went in to see if you were all right. We would have just waited there in the trees until you came out, but I thought it best to step in when I did."

Peter nodded. "But how did you get here? How did you escape in the first place?" He shook his head. "How in the world did you get your sight back? How–?" Still watching the road as best he could with blurred sight, he slipped his arm around his brother's shoulders and pulled him close to his side. "Shahrivar said you'd been sold to Tahir. Lady Cemil said you had drowned. I didn't know what to believe. I thought–"

There was a slight thickness in Edmund's soft laugh. "And what did Aslan say?"

"He said He would take care of you, and that I had to take care of Narnia." Peter steadied himself a little. "I should never have listened to anyone else." He swiped his sleeve over his eyes and glanced at Phillip. "You've been home, haven't you, Ed? Susan and Lucy, are they all right?"

"They're fine. Evidently Orieus has hardly let them out of his sight since we went missing."

"And what about your sight? I thought you might never–"

"Thank Aslan for Lucy's cordial." Edmund's smile faltered, and Peter could feel a tremor run through him. "I was so afraid. All that time in the dark–"

Peter tightened his arm around him. "It's over now. It's all over. We just have to get these chests back to Narnia."

Edmund glanced back at the covered wagon bed. "What exactly is in there? The Dwarfs said they were hired to dig up a certain kind of earth, but they didn't really know what it was for."

Peter urged the horses into a faster pace. "It's the cure."

"The cure?"

"You've been home," Peter said, his voice wary. "Tell me what it's like."

Edmund's expression turned grim. "Desolate. Nothing growing. Nothing at all. Trees stripped of leaves and bark, dead or dying. Every flower, every bush, every blade of grass, eaten to the roots. Lucy told me it was those butterfly things sent from the Tisroc. Nothing seems to kill them."

"I have the cure," Peter said. "Shahrivar recognized me at the slave market, bought me and took me to the tunnel where the Dwarfs were mining this particular earth. He wanted me to give him Narnia. Otherwise, he was going to wait until Narnia had such far-reaching famine that the people offered themselves to the Tisroc as slaves in exchange for food and the cure."

"And the four of us?"

"I think all he actually knew about you is that you had escaped. No doubt he would have eventually heard you were drowned. He was going to kill me before their royal court and take Lucy for himself. The Tisroc was to get Susan."

Edmund's eyes narrowed. "I'll kill him."

"No need," Peter said, eyes hard. "He won't be bothering anyone anymore."

"Then he's dead. It seems no more than just to me, though now I expect we will have outright war with Calormen because of it."

"We're at war with them as it is," Peter said. "We have been since Arren and Darreth betrayed us to help their plot. Now, at least, we have a way to stop this whole thing."

"And the Tisroc?" Edmund asked. "And the Terebinthians?"

"One thing at a time, My Kings." The Horse trotting beside them nickered softly. "You're headed home, you're both alive and well, and you have the cure for the Aned Tahwen. That's enough to give thanks for all at once, isn't it?"

"True enough, Phillip. True enough." Edmund laughed and leaned back against the wagon seat. "Drive on, brother mine."

The road was almost empty until they got closer to the docks. Even then there was very little activity. Peter kept his hood pulled up as far as it would go, and Edmund hunched over in the seat beside him trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Phillip was wisely silent.

"Where is this ship you brought?" Peter asked, slowing the wagon when they reached the sea. "It's not one of ours, is it?"

Edmund looked faintly disgusted. "Of course not. It's that little cutter over there." He pointed out the one, not much more than the silhouette of mast and rigging against the night sky. "I hired it in Narnia."

Peter nodded and pulled the wagon up to the dock next to it and then sat for a moment, looking with longing out to the sea and to the north. Home at last. They were going home.

"You'll like the captain," Edmund said as he climbed down from the wagon seat. "He's a good man and won't tell any tales."

Before Peter could reply, a shadow sprang from the back of some crates and seized Edmund from behind, one arm around his neck and a gleaming blade at his throat.

"Too bad that can't be said for the dock rats I've had watching for you, King Edmund."

Edmund's eyes widened, but he didn't struggle, and Peter leapt to his feet, feeling the blood race hot through his veins.

"Arren." His hands clenched into fists. "Traitor."

"High King." The Terebinthian grinned, teeth white in his dark beard. "My fool of a brother told me King Edmund had escaped. And I knew, blind though he may be, that he would come back for you."

Edmund gave Peter an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and Peter nodded the slightest bit in acknowledgment.

"Blind?" Peter asked.

Arren laughed. "Don't try to pretend, My Lord. Your brother is blind and helpless. If you wish him to live, come with me."

Peter held up his hands and came around to that side of the wagon. "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted, High King. A share of Narnia and the favor of the Tisroc (may he be generous forever)." He tightened his arm around Edmund's neck. "Sadly, the only way I will be able to keep that favor is to finally fulfill my agreement with him and make away with the Kings of Narnia once and for all."

"Peter."

There was desperate fear in Edmund's voice, but Peter could read the look in his eyes. He was anything but afraid. He was tensing to spring and signaling Peter to do the same.

"If you're only going to kill us anyway, why should we cooperate?" Peter asked, his voice quiet as he moved a little closer to captor and captive.

"It can be easy or hard, My Lord." Arren tightened his hold yet more, making Edmund catch a gasping breath. "And if you cause too much of a commotion, it will only draw observers. Would not our Tisroc be delighted to know the Kings of Narnia have chosen to visit his fair city? Either way, you and your brother die. As I said, I can make my way quick and easy."

"Peter," Edmund said again, and again his voice quavered with what sounded like terror. "Peter, please–"

At that, Peter took a step closer, his hands open and outstretched, subtly forcing Arren back. Back towards the wagon. Back towards–

"Phillip, now!"

The Horse shoved the Terebinthian forward and then reared up and gave a shrill whinny, forcing Arren to scramble away from his flailing hooves. In the same instant, Edmund twisted out of Arren's hold and Peter flung himself on both of them, all three struggling for control of the dagger still in the Terebinthian's hand.

OOOOO

As quickly as the battle had started, it was over. Edmund looked down at the Terebinthian Duke crumpled in the widening pool of red at his feet. Ghost pale, Peter stood panting beside him, one hand on Edmund's shoulder, steadying himself. His other hand, red with Arren's blood, was pressed against his torn and stained shirt.

"All right– Ed?"

Edmund nodded. "I don't know which of us has more blood on him, me or him or you."

"Doesn't matter," Peter said, his voice shaky and insupportably weary. "He's dead. I just– Eddie, I need to go home."

Edmund smiled thinly, knowing exactly how he felt. "Sure, Peter. Let's get–"

Without warning, Peter sagged against him and then collapsed into the street.

**Author's Note: Many thanks to Lady Alambiel for help in brainstorming and proofing and remembering who was named what.**

– **WD**

**P. S. Please go to my profile page and vote in my poll. Tell me what you want me to write next!**


	37. Job 30:17

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me.**

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: JOB 30:17

"Peter." Edmund tried to hold his brother up but sank to one knee under his weight. "Peter."

He pulled Peter's blood-filled hand away from his abdomen, wincing at the deep slash through shirt and skin and muscle and at the blood pooling into the cobbled street. As swiftly as he was able, he tore Peter's shirt where it was already cut and wadded up the cloth. Then he pressed it hard into the wound, trying his best to staunch the bleeding.

"Phillip." Edmund lifted his eyes, meeting the Horse's worried gaze. "Tell the Dwarfs to get out of the wagon and carry the chests of earth onto the ship. Then I want them to get to Narnia as quickly as possible. And I want you to go with them."

Phillip whickered. "My King, I will not leave you. And I will not leave the High King."

"You can't stay here. And I need someone I can trust to get the chests back to the Cair at once."

"And what will you do?"

Edmund pressed harder against the still-bleeding wound, and Peter moaned and began to stir.

"I have to get him some help. The only safe place I know is back with Lady Cemil. She will see he is taken care of."

"No." Peter's eyes opened, half-wild and desperate. "No. The ship. Don't leave me here."

"I'm not going to leave you," Edmund soothed. "It's all right. The lady–"

"No," Peter gasped, clutching his hands. "No, no. Eddie, please. Please." Tears welled into his eyes. "Home. I need to go home. Take me home."

_Home to die_, Edmund read in his expression, in his desperate words and trembling hands.

He swallowed hard and didn't say anything. He only pressed harder, making Peter gasp.

"Ed–"

"Phillip," Edmund barked, turning to the Horse. "Do as I told you. Go on."

Phillip pawed the ground, glancing towards the ship and then back at Peter and Edmund. "My King–"

"Arren."

Edmund glanced towards the voice, little more than a gasp, but he recognized it. He recognized it and the young man who stumbled towards them out of the darkness, and then he pulled Peter protectively closer. "Darreth?"

"Arren. Brother." The Terebinthian knelt beside the still form sprawled in the street and bowed his head. "I asked you–" He drew a shuddering breath. "I begged you to let it be, but you would not. Greedy, ambitious fool! What has that brought you but an early grave and ruin for those who meant you no harm?"

"Darreth, please," Edmund said. "You helped me before. Help me now. Before it's too late."

The Terebinthian looked up, his face streaked in the pale light. "Edmund. You can see. Your brother is still alive?"

Edmund nodded. "For now. Help me get him into the wagon and back to where I can get him looked after. I–"

"You cannot stay here." Darreth looked around, as if he half-expected a regiment of the Tisroc's soldiers to come pouring out of the dark alleyway beside them. "Someone will see us in another minute. The watch will come. You'll be arrested."

"You mean you'll turn us in."

"No." Darreth scrubbed his face with one hand. "Has there not been death enough? I was a fool to do as I did. To betray you both for . . . nothing. I'll not make my fault worse now."

"Then help me," Edmund pled. "Just help me get him into the wagon and–"

"No," Peter groaned, gasping, trying to pull away. "The ship. Let me see– the girls– Narnia– again."

Edmund shushed him, trying to hold him still, and Peter collapsed against him, clutching his shirt.

"Please," he breathed, his voice weaker. "Please."

"I can't," Edmund told him. "The trip back would–"

"My ship is just down there," Darreth said, pointing to a berth not far from where they were. "It's faster than yours. Our ship's surgeon is very good. It may be he can help your brother."

Edmund looked at Peter and then at Darreth. "I don't–"

"He would have a better chance there than he would if you took him back through the streets of Tashbaan, wherever you're headed."

He was right. The trip to the Tarkaan's palace at the top of the city would not be a quick one or, in a jolting wagon over the street's rough cobblestones, an easy one. By the time Edmund got Peter to Lady Cemil and she summoned her physician, it might already be too late. Darreth's ship was Terebinthian, swift and sure. And she had a surgeon aboard her.

Edmund looked up at Darreth. "Help me get him to your ship."

Between the two of them, they managed to get Peter into the wagon seat with Edmund holding him upright, still keeping pressure on the wound. Darreth led the horses, and soon they reached the Terebinthian schooner.

As a dozen sailors gawked at him from the deck, Phillip oversaw the loading of the chests and the Dwarfs. Edmund and Darreth carried Peter aboard and to the cabin Darreth brought them to.

"Make him as comfortable as you are able," Darreth said. "I'll send in the surgeon. Then I have something I must tend to."

"Arren?" Edmund asked, and Darreth nodded grimly.

"He was a duke of Terebinthia and my brother. No matter what he did, I'll have him buried as befits his station. I'll bring him aboard, and then we can leave this cursed place."

Edmund looked down at his own brother, pale now and still as death. What if Peter were the one lying cold in that street?

"I'm sorry, Darreth. Sorry for all of it."

The Terebinthian only nodded and then left.

Edmund did not dare stop pressing the fragment of Peter's shirt against the gash in his belly, but the cloth was saturated with blood already. Where was that surgeon?

"Let me see, boy."

Edmund looked up to see a tall, grim-faced man standing at Peter's other side.

"You're the surgeon?"

The man nodded. "Baldur. Let me see."

Edmund carefully moved the compress away from the wound and the surgeon pushed his spectacles up on his nose and bent over for a closer look. With practiced fingers, he examined the deep cut, and Peter stirred, moaning softly.

"You will have to keep him still while I sew him up." Baldur rummaged in the leather bag he had brought with him and produced a small dark-colored bottle. "Make him drink this. All of it."

Edmund took the bottle and pulled out the cork. Whatever was inside smelled vile and, even nearly unconscious, Peter resisted taking it down.

"What is it?" Edmund asked when the bottle was empty. "For pain?"

He got only a curt nod in answer, and then the surgeon was leaning out of the door, calling for two of the sailors to help him. Soon the two were stationed at the foot of the bunk, each of them with both arms around one of Peter's legs and leaning on him with all their weight. Edmund was seated at the head of the bunk with Peter's head in his lap and both hands holding tightly to Peter's. The surgeon put a leather strap between Peter's teeth.

"Hold him still," Baldur warned. "It will be easier on him."

Edmund nodded, and then he looked down at Peter. His eyes were open, hazy with the potion he had drunk, glazed over with pain and fear. "Emmun?"

The word was garbled and his breath was coming fast now. He knew what was going to happen.

"I thought that stuff would make him sleep." Edmund glared at the surgeon. "It's hardly dulled the pain."

"It does what it can." Baldur threaded a long, curved needle that gleamed and glinted in the flickering lamplight. "As do we all. Now hold him."

Edmund squeezed Peter's hands and realized they were slick with sweat. Whether that was his or Peter's or both of theirs, he was not sure. He forced a smile, hoping that deep fear was not in his own eyes.

"Hold on to me, Pete. It'll be all right. Don't let go."

**Author's Note: Please go to my profile page and answer the poll I have posted. Your input is very important!**

**Thanks to LadyAlambielKnightOfNarnia for giving this a look before I posted.**

– **WD**


	38. 2 Thessalonians 3:15

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: 2 THESSALONIANS 3:15

Edmund clung, white knuckled, to the railing of the Terebinthian schooner. It was over. It was over. Peter was sleeping now, and it was all over.

The night was warm, but it wasn't so stifling on deck as it had been in the tiny cabin. There had been five of them stuffed into a space meant for one. Edmund had held Peter's hands and, eventually, his shoulders, and there had been two sailors at Peter's feet, pinning him to the bunk, all of them forced to use every bit of strength and leverage they had to hold him down while Baldur, the ship's surgeon, sewed up the deep gash in his stomach.

The potion the surgeon had provided had barely made Peter groggy, and he had writhed and bucked against the pain.

"Hold him!" Baldur had growled with a curse.

Shaken with Peter's only-partly muffled screams, Edmund had held his brother more tightly, his hands as aching and bruised as his heart as he murmured next to Peter's ear.

"Shh. Shh. I'm here. Hold on to me. Don't let go."

It had been mercy when Peter finally lost consciousness, mercy when the surgeon wiped sweat from his own upper lip and said he was finished, mercy when he took the leather strap from between Peter's teeth and gave Edmund a damp cloth to wash Peter's death-pale face.

Edmund gripped the railing more tightly, remembering Peter's lean abdomen smeared with blood, the stiff stitches black and stark against the pale flesh, the wound itself red and puckered.

_Home_, Peter had pled before they had taken him aboard. _I need to go home. Take me home._

They were headed to Narnia. As quickly as Darreth's schooner could sail, they were headed home. Peter had begged to be taken back, to see the girls, to touch the sweet land of Narnia once again, to go home.

_Home to die._

Edmund sagged against the rail, hanging over it as he covered his sobs with both hands. Peter hadn't said it, but they had both known that was what he meant. And just now Edmund had seen death in his brother's fever-bright eyes.

"Aslan," he pled. "Don't let him die. Please, don't let Peter die."

But the wind whipped the words from his mouth and scattered them into the starless sky. It didn't matter. He'd prayed the same ones again and again in the stifling cabin, in the hours since the surgeon had finished his stitchwork.

Baldur himself had ordered Edmund out onto the deck.

"I'll not tend to the both of you, so don't make yourself sick. Get out. Breathe the air. Eat something. I'll be here until you come back."

But would Peter?

Edmund didn't dare ask the question. He could see the answer in the surgeon's eyes all the same. The man was doing his duty, doing what he could until the last, but he had no hope. He had done what he could, and there was no more to be done. Peter, too, had done what he had needed to do. He had found the cure for the Aned Tahwen and now they were bringing it home on a swift ship. He had saved Narnia.

_Well done, good and faithful servant._

He had saved his kingdom. Everything he had, everything he was, he had given to save the kingdom Aslan had entrusted to him, and surely he would be received into the Lion's own country with joy and blessing. But those left behind–

"Edmund?"

Edmund whirled around, his back now to the rail, staring into the darkness to see who had hailed him. Please, Aslan. Peter wasn't–

"Darreth?" Edmund scrubbed one hand across his eyes and took a steadying breath. "What is it?"

"I merely saw you out here." The Terebinthian shrugged. "I thought you might want someone to talk to."

Edmund only looked at him.

"How is your brother?" Darreth said, searching Edmund's eyes.

There was a sudden choking tightness in Edmund's throat, and he looked up at the cloud-shrouded moon, catching a hard breath, waiting until he was steady again.

"The surgeon is with him."

"What does he say?"

Edmund shook his head. "He tells me nothing."

He turned back to look out, unseeing, on the black, rolling sea. And then he realized Darreth was leaning on the rail beside him.

"What a fool I've been," the Terebinthian said, the words barely audible over the rush of the waves. "What a miserable worm of a fool I've been."

Edmund didn't look at him. He certainly didn't argue with him. Miserable worm was right. Spineless, craven, contemptible worm. Narnia nearly destroyed, Susan and Lucy grieved and desperate, and Peter–

"You've killed my brother."

Darreth drew a sharp breath at Edmund's emotionless words and then hung his head. "And my own."

And Edmund realized the boy, for truly he was only a couple of years older than Edmund himself, he was crying.

"I did not know. It seemed a wonderful plan at the time. And Arren said it was the part of a courageous man to dare courageous deeds. Oh, Arren, you fool."

Still Edmund said nothing. The idiot should have known none of this would come to a good end. Not for him. Not for Arren. Not for anyone. Greed and reckless ambition. How could he have not seen? How could he have let himself be drawn into such a plan and only later repent his part in it? How could he–

_How could I?_ Edmund dropped his head, remembering how he, too, had betrayed Narnia, the girls, Peter himself, for nothing but sweets. He had said it, too. _I didn't know. I didn't mean it to be this way. I didn't truly want to hurt anyone. _Yet, his betrayal had cost Aslan a shameful, torturous death on the Stone Table. And it was only by His grace that that betrayal hadn't cost the lives of his brother and sisters. His grace.

"I'm sorry, Darreth."

Edmund had said it before. Here on the ship, when the Terebinthian was going to bring aboard his brother's still-warm body, Edmund had told him he was sorry, and he had meant it. If it had been Peter– Oh, Aslan, what if it _was_ Peter? What if, by the time they reached land, there were two brothers to be buried?

He clung to the railing again, determined not to fall apart. Not here. Not now. Peter, Peter, not now.

Abruptly, Darreth was on his knees at Edmund's feet, head bowed, voice broken. "I know you cannot forgive me anymore than I can forgive myself. You are the Just King, and it would be unjust for me to be forgiven for what I've done. You are an honorable man, I know, and betrayal and treachery are foreign to you. I will not ask for mercy, for I deserve none. I will not ask for justice, for I know you will afford me nothing else. But I do ask for your belief that I regret my part in what has happened. I regret I did nothing to stop it, that I did nothing to warn you when there was still time. If I could go back and have it to do over, Edmund, truly, I would. Now I ask only that you believe me."

_Betrayal and treachery are foreign to you. _

Edmund clung to the rail, bruised hands aching once more. _If only you knew, Darreth. If only you knew what I was, what I might yet be but for the Lion's love and mercy._

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, still looking out onto the black depths of the sea.

Darreth did not lift his head. "I surrender myself to the laws of Narnia and to your judgement."

Justice. It was only right. Darreth had betrayed him and Peter and Narnia herself. And now Peter was dying. Narnia was soon to be restored. Edmund was headed home. But Peter was dying. Peter was dying. How could he forgive that?

But Darreth had tried. He had tried to make up for the wrong he had done. He had helped Edmund escape. He was doing his best now to get Peter home in time for Lucy's cordial. He hadn't tried to excuse himself or point fingers at those who were truly more culpable than he. He had merely surrendered himself to justice.

And Edmund remembered a little boy, whipped and broken, who had also surrendered himself to justice and, by the Lion's grace, found mercy. And, when he had been returned to his family, he had again found forgiveness. And love.

"What sentence do you think you deserve?" he asked quietly.

"I betrayed you and the High King. I betrayed our friendship." Darreth looked up now, his eyes rimmed with red, but his voice steady. "Treason deserves no less than death."

Edmund nodded. "And yet, could not even a traitor mend?"

Darreth's forehead wrinkled. "Edmund–"

"Better come now, boy." The surgeon stood at the door that led to the cabins, his face even more grim than usual. "If you want to see your brother."

Heart racing, Edmund followed him to Peter.

**Author's Note: As you can see, this story is almost over. If you haven't already, please vote in the poll on my profile page and let me know what kind of story you would like me to write next. Or feel free to PM me with requests if you don't see anything that suits you on the list. The poll will close on Tuesday, March 12, 2013.**

– **WD**


	39. Matthew 25:23

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: MATTHEW 25:23

At the door to Peter's cabin, Edmund caught a shuddering breath. Was he too late? _Please, Aslan, no. No_.

The ship's surgeon looked back at him. "If you mean to make a spectacle of yourself, you can go back topside."

Edmund swallowed hard and forced his expression into some semblance of composure. "How is he?"

The surgeon's expression was hard. "He's dying."

Edmund flinched at the stark pronouncement and tears stung behind his eyes, but he did not let them out. He wouldn't make a spectacle of himself. Not now.

"The wound is too deep," Baldur said. "The damage too severe. I did all I could, but he's lost too much blood. Infection has set in. If he had been stronger to begin with instead of so battered and half-starved, we may have had a chance, but instead . . . "

He finished the thought with a shrug that was not devoid of sympathy.

Edmund wanted to be sick. He wanted to rage and rail and weep, but he did not. Aslan was with him and with Peter. He couldn't let go. He wouldn't let go. If they could make it home–

"How long does he have?"

Edmund's voice sounded foreign to his own ears. Stiff. Detached. Almost clinical. Falling to pieces now would not help Peter. Peter could still be helped. If they could make it home.

"A few hours," the surgeon said. "Perhaps a day."

Edmund nodded, a curt, soldier's nod. "And when do we get to Cair Paravel?"

"It's almost dawn now," Baldur considered. "I believe the captain said we would make port by tomorrow morning at the earliest."

Again Edmund nodded. "Then Peter will have to hold on till then."

The surgeon lifted one eyebrow and then merely shrugged. "As you say. In the meantime, if you can coax him into taking the draught I prepared for him, it will make his way easier. He refused it when I tried to give it to him, and I did not wish to agitate him unnecessarily. I left it on the chair."

"Very well." Edmund kept his expression devoid of emotion. "I will make sure he takes it. May I see him now?"

The surgeon bowed slightly. "If the pain worsens or he seems in distress, send for me."

He opened the door and, once Edmund was inside, shut it again. Peter was lying, white and still, on the little bunk, his long limbs bundled into the small space as if he had been wrapped for burial.

Edmund shook his head. No. No, no, no. He wouldn't think that. Aslan, he wouldn't think that. Peter wasn't dead. He wasn't.

"Peter?"

Edmund kept his voice soft. If he was sleeping–

Peter stirred a little, and then his eyes opened slightly. "Ed. Where'd you go?"

"Just to get a bit of air." Edmund forced a smile and went to him, taking his hand. "How are you feeling?"

One corner of Peter's mouth twitched. "Been better. Been worse." His grip tightened a little. "Better now."

Edmund put his free hand on his brother's forehead. Hot. Far too hot. As the surgeon had said, there was a small bottle on the chair next to the bunk. He picked it up.

"I want you to take this, Peter. It will help you sleep."

Peter shook his head, his grip tightening yet more. "Not yet, Edmund. Please, not yet. Have to talk first."

Talk. _No, Peter, I won't say goodbye. I won't._

Edmund noticed a cloth next to a basin of cool water on the little table in the corner. He wet it and wrung it out and then used it to cool Peter's face.

"Tell Darreth thank you for me," Peter said. "If he hadn't come along, we'd still be in Tashbaan."

Edmund set his jaw, saying nothing. What was he supposed to say?_ Thank you, Darreth. Between you and Arren, you've killed my brother_?

"And we would have both died that day in Terebinthia if it hadn't been for him," Peter added. "Thank him for me."

There was something in his eyes that told Edmund he had, as usual, read his younger brother's thoughts. _Thank him? Peter– _

"Please."

Edmund nodded. "All right."

"The girls," Peter said, and there was worried pleading in his eyes.

Edmund touched the cloth to his parched lips. "We'll see the girls soon. We should be at the Cair by first thing in the morning." He managed a bit of a smile. "I imagine the two of them will be standing on the dock waiting for us."

"You have to take care of them, Ed. They're both so young yet. Lucy–"

"You'd be proud of Lu, Peter." Edmund forced his voice to stay steady. "She wasn't fooled by Arren's evidence that we were dead. She wasn't fooled at all. She and Susan–"

"You have to do better than I did. You have to–" Peter drew a deep breath and then winced. "Keep them safe. And Narnia." He pressed the back of Edmund's hand to his too-warm cheek. "And yourself. Ed, promise me you won't do anything stupid."

_I won't say goodbye._

Eyes stinging, Edmund managed a hint of a smirk. "Stupid is in the eye of the beholder."

Again the corner of Peter's mouth twitched. "Lame excuse for doing what you want all the time."

He didn't say anything else, but he closed his eyes and that touch of a smile stayed on his face. _Aslan, please, no. Not Peter. Not Peter. Not– _

"Come on, Peter." Edmund unstoppered the bottle and slipped one hand behind Peter's head, tilting it up. "Sleep now. There will be time for talk later."

"But Ed–"

"Come on."

Edmund tipped the bottle, pouring half the contents into Peter's mouth. Then he settled himself at the head of the bed with Peter's head in his lap. Peter exhaled and relaxed against him.

"That's it," Edmund said softly, patting his face again with the damp cloth. "Sleep today. Cair Paravel tomorrow."

Peter found his hand and brought it to rest over his heart. "Tomorrow."

Soon he was asleep. Edmund merely held him there, trying to cool his fever, soothing him when the pain pierced his unconsciousness enough to make him whimper, begging Aslan to let them reach Narnia and Lucy's cordial in time.

Throughout the day, he dozed off and on himself and ate little of the food one of the sailors brought him. The surgeon once again ordered him to take the air, but he refused. How could he leave knowing that, when he came back, Peter might be gone? _Not Peter. Not Peter._

It was once again late in the night when Peter's voice woke him. It was so weak, Edmund could barely hear it, and then Edmund realized he was trembling.

His face was not just pale. It was white. Bloodless. And he wasn't hot anymore. He was cold.

Edmund held him closer, trying to warm him. "Peter? What is it?"

"Sleep today," Peter murmured. "Cair Paravel tomorrow. Is it–?"

"Almost. Almost tomorrow." Edmund glanced out of the cabin's tiny window. There was only unrelieved blackness outside. "We'll be home soon."

"Home." Peter's voice broke, and a tear slipped from the corner of his eye. "So long. So long since home. If I don't see it again–"

"Shut up," Edmund said, his own voice half choked. "Shut up. You're going home. _We're_ going home, and we're going to be fine. Do you hear me? We're going to be fine. Both of us."

He pulled Peter closer, burying his face in the sweat-slicked golden hair. _I won't say goodbye. I won't. I can't._

"Shh," he whispered, tears burning in his own eyes. "Go to sleep, Peter. Go to sleep. Tomorrow is coming. We'll be home soon."

He emptied the remainder of the surgeon's potion into Peter's mouth and once more watched him sleep. His breathing was growing softer and shallower, and he was still cold. Despite the closeness of the cabin, despite the blankets and Edmund's arms around him, he was still so cold. Edmund held him yet closer. _Not Peter,_ he begged, eyes closed, and the words ran in an endless litany in his brain. _Not Peter. Please, Aslan, not Peter. Not– _

"Cair Paravel," came the cry from the deck, and, startled, Edmund lifted his head.

He must have slept, because now the tiny window showed him the light of the new sun and, ahead, the white glimmer of the Cair. Home. The girls, the cordial, Aslan, home at last.

"Peter," Edmund breathed against his brother's hair. "Peter, we're home. It's Narnia." His lips quivered into a smile and he sat Peter up a little more, wanting him, too, to see. "It's Cair Paravel. It's–"

Peter's head merely fell back against his shoulder, and apart from Edmund's faint sobs, there was only silence.

**Author's Note: Dun dun dun! What now? What now? Thanks to LadyAlambielKnightOfNarnia for giving this a look before I posted. **

– **WD**


	40. James 1:12

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER FORTY: JAMES 1:12

"Peter?"

Edmund was wrenched with sobs. Cair Paravel, beloved, longed for, was in sight. They had made it home at last. But Peter did not know it. Peter lay limp and unresponsive against his shoulder. Cold. So cold.

"Peter."

The name came out in an almost-unintelligible whimper, and Edmund had to force himself to breathe. _Not now. Please, Peter, not now. Don't die. Don't. Please don't._

He pressed his fingers against Peter's throat. There was a pulse, wasn't there? Or was that the pounding of his own heart. _Don't die._

He pressed harder and then laughed faintly to feel his brother take an almost imperceptible breath. Edmund scrambled to his feet and flung open the cabin door.

"The surgeon!" he cried. "Someone bring the surgeon!"

There was some sort of commotion on deck, the beating of wings and then the patter of feet. Feet too light and small to be the surgeon's.

"Edmund! Edmund!"

He rubbed his eyes, wondering if grief and dread had somehow tampered with his sight, and then Lucy threw herself, weeping, into his arms.

"Lucy! Oh, Lu, did you bring your cordial? Hurry."

She shook her head, pulling away from him and going to Peter. "I– I can't. I can't give him any."

"What?"

"I can't," she sobbed, and she leaned over Peter, pressing her lips to his forehead, worriedly patting his cheek. "Aslan says I mustn't."

"Aslan? Why would He–"

"He's waiting for you both on the shore. He says you're to bring Peter out to Him."

Edmund looked at her and then out through the window. The ship was just now pulling up to the dock. "How did you get aboard, Lu?"

"Gryphon. Phillip had one of the Gulls come tell us you were coming and that Peter was hurt. I had my cordial and was coming out to you when Aslan told me I mustn't– I mustn't give him any." She stroked Peter's hair off his forehead, tears welling up once more. "I don't know why He won't let me unless– unless– Oh, Edmund."

Edmund felt himself go cold inside. "Unless it's Peter's time to go."

_Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord._

Lucy looked up at him, breaking his heart with the grief in her eyes, and then she flung herself against Peter's chest, sobbing harshly. Edmund knelt beside her, there next to the little bunk, and took her and Peter both into his arms. For the last time? _Oh, Aslan, no. Please no._

"Lu?"

Edmund and Lucy both looked up, pulling back so they could see their older brother's pale face. His voice was barely a whisper, little more than a sigh, but his eyes were slightly open, and his mouth turned up a little at one side.

"Lu," he breathed again, and she cupped his cheek in her hand, managing a wobbly smile.

"Peter. You're home. You're home at last."

"Where's Susan?" he asked, looking from her to Edmund and then back again. "Su?"

"Shh, shh," Lucy soothed. "She's waiting for you on the dock. And Aslan–"

Her voice broke, and Edmund squeezed his arm around her, tears welling into his own eyes. "Aslan is waiting for you, Peter. Are you–" _Aslan, please. Please, please, no. _"Are you ready to go?"

"Let me see Susan," Peter said, and there was a settled calm in his voice and in his eyes. "Let me touch Narnia once again. Then take me to Aslan."

Lucy wiped Peter's face with the cloth by the basin and then smoothed his hair. She and Edmund managed to put Peter's battered shirt on him, covering the angry, puckered slash across his abdomen. Then, as carefully as they were able, they put his arms around their shoulders and pulled him to his feet.

Peter caught his breath, suppressing a moan, clinging to Edmund, and Edmund tightened his hold on him, waiting until he was no longer trembling. Lucy looked up at her oldest brother, pity and pain in her eyes, and Edmund remembered it had been nearly three months since she had seen him. This pale, broken Peter was a world away from the spirited, golden High King who had gone to Terebinthia to hunt.

There were no words between them as they moved carefully from the cabin to the deck and then to the dock. As Lucy had said, Susan was standing there waiting for them, her color heightened with weeping, but her eyes full of gentle love.

"Peter," she murmured, putting her arms around him, nestling against him and holding tight.

A smile touched his lips. "Hullo, Su."

He kissed her forehead, greeting, blessing and farewell all in one. Then, as she followed with them, Edmund and Lucy helped him off the dock and onto the beach.

"Let me," he breathed, reaching towards the sand, and they helped him kneel, helped him bury his hands in the pure whiteness.

"Home," he said, again with that hint of a smile as he looked up at the cliffs above them and at the gleaming walls of Cair Paravel. "Home."

He let the sand sift through his fingers, and some of it drifted into a large, deep paw print.

A Lion's paw.

Peter set his hand in the middle of it, small and frail by contrast, and then he looked back up at his brother and sisters.

"Help me," he said, and as gently as they were able, they brought him again to his feet.

He leaned heavily on Edmund. Susan had his arm around her shoulders, too, and supported him on the other side. And Lucy stood behind him, her hand in the middle of his back, lending what strength she could.

There at the end of the trail of paw prints stood the great Lion, looking on them, patiently waiting.

"Aslan," Susan said, and she and Lucy both looked away. There was no joy in seeing Him now. Not now.

Edmund tightened his hold on his brother, looking towards the Lion with pleading eyes. _Please, Aslan. No. Not Peter. Not Peter_.

"Aslan," he said, his voice half-choked, but he found he could say nothing else. There was nothing more to say.

"Let him come to Me."

Edmund held Peter closer. "Please, Aslan, I don't think he is able to–"

The Lion looked deeply into Edmund's eyes. "If he is willing, I will make him able."

With a sob, Susan buried her face against Peter's neck. "You've only just come home. Oh, Peter, no. No."

Peter leaned his cheek against her hair, and then Lucy, too, was huddled against him, but if she wept, she made no sound. Peter blessed them both with a kiss and then pulled away, leaving them clinging to one another for comfort and strength. Finally he turned to Edmund, and a single tear trickled down his cheek.

"Help me, Ed."

Edmund felt everything inside him collapse in on itself, leaving him empty but for the howling, raging pain, but Peter was leaning on him. He could not be weak now. _Oh, Aslan. Aslan._

He ducked out from under Peter's arm, still supporting him as best he could, and Peter sagged against him, burying his face against Edmund's shoulder.

"Help me," he said again, and Edmund knew it wasn't just physical weakness he feared.

He pressed a kiss to the golden crown of Peter's head. "Be strong, brother mine, and very courageous."

For a long moment, Peter clung there, hands twisted into Edmund's shirt, and then he lifted his head, jaw clenched, eyes clear.

"Aslan hold you between His paws, brother mine."

"And bring us safe one day to His country," Edmund finished for him.

Peter's lips trembled into a smile, and he nodded, ignoring the tears that filled his eyes. "Love you, Eddie."

"Love you, too, Pete."

With another nod, Peter turned to go.

_No. Not Peter. Please, Aslan, not Peter._

Edmund clutched his arm, pulling him back around, and then he looked at the scars that were there, still raised and dark. Two slightly curved lines crossed at the top end, almost like a wishbone. Then a straight line with a small comma-like mark near its top. Then what looked like a capital L with a dot in the bend. Six small marks in all. _His and not my own._

Should not Aslan have what belonged to Him?

"Let him come to Me," Aslan said once more.

With a low cry, Edmund hugged Peter close once again and then released him.

Peter pressed a quick kiss to his forehead and then walked down the beach to where the Lion awaited him.

**Author's Note: Okay, here's an early chapter surprise. I was expecting to end this at Chapter Forty, but it's not over yet. Maybe two more chapters. Stay tuned!**

**Thanks to LadyAlabielKnightOfNarnia for previewing and encouragement.**

– **WD**


	41. 1 Peter 1: 6, 7 & 8

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: 1 PETER 1:6-8

Sight blurred, Edmund watched as Peter followed the Great Lion down the beach and into the bare trees, watched until the two bright spots of gold were gone, and then still stood there watching.

_Let him come to Me_, Aslan had said.

Edmund had obeyed. Peter had obeyed. They had said their farewells, somehow trusting that the Lion knew what was best. No matter the pain that razored through Edmund's heart now, he could believe nothing else. Peter belonged to Him just as surely as Edmund did. But, oh, the letting go–

"My King?"

Edmund swiped one hand over his eyes and then turned. "Phillip."

The Horse's expression was full of sympathy. "The Dwarfs have taken the chests of the cure and are spreading the contents throughout the gardens and out into the woods. Oreius is seeing to everything."

"He'll be sorry he didn't get to see Peter again."

Phillip nuzzled his cheek. "We will all see him again. One day."

Edmund nodded, saying nothing. Then, with a cry, he threw his arms around the Horse, burying his face against his warm neck, racked with deep, shuddering sobs, sobs echoed by his sisters in their grief.

_Love you, Eddie. _

_Love you, too, Pete_.

The last words, the last tearful smile, the last– The last. Oh, Aslan, the last.

"Peter, Peter," he sobbed, twining his fingers into Phillip's mane, holding on as best he could as wave after wave of searing pain crashed over him. "Peter."

Phillip rested his head over Edmund's shoulder, a Horse's hug, and stayed there, making soothing little snuffling sounds against the back of Edmund's neck. Finally, when he had no tears left, Edmund pushed away, straightening his shoulders, lifting his head. His sisters needed him. His kingdom needed him.

He looked towards the forest where he had last seen those two spots of gold. Peter had been faithful. To his family, to Narnia, to the Lion. Through everything that came, with all his strength and all his heart, with no thought for himself, he had been faithful, and the Lion had no doubt rewarded him for it.

_Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord._

"Well done, Peter," Edmund whispered, the words hardly able to get past the knot in his throat. "Well done."

Susan and Lucy were still clinging together, still weeping, and he knew he had to go to them. Peter had asked him to look after them, and he would. He had also asked something else.

Edmund looked around the somber crowd of people gathered there on the beach until he spotted one young man standing at the very back, head down, eyes lowered, grieving.

Edmund went to him. "Darreth."

The Terebinthian looked up, eyes red rimmed, face flushed. "Edmund. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Acid-like pain burned at Edmund's heart, and he ached to lash out at him, to scream and curse and rail. Peter was gone because of Darreth and his miserable brother. Because of them, Peter had suffered so long and so harshly in Tashbaan, and now he was gone. And now Darreth was sorry.

_If he hadn't come along, we'd still be in Tashbaan. We would have both died that day in Terebinthia if it hadn't been for him. Thank him for me._

Edmund closed his eyes, drawing hard breaths until he was steady enough to speak.

"Peter wanted me to thank you. For the help you gave both of us in Terebinthia and in Tashbaan. And he was right. You saved our lives. Thank you."

"Edmund, please–"

"And I forgive you. I forgive you all of it." Edmund exhaled, some of the cruel tightness in his chest easing as he did. "As I was forgiven."

Darreth could only stare at him, open mouthed, speechless, and Edmund went to comfort his sisters.

OOOOO

Peter followed Aslan into the woods, not looking back. He wouldn't look back. Looking back would only show him Susan and Lucy and Edmund brokenhearted and weeping there at the shore. He wouldn't look back.

Instead he looked ahead, following the Lion's heavy steps, following the living gold, the only color in the blighted forest. Edmund had told him all of their kingdom had been devastated, stripped bare by the Aned Tahwen, but he had not pictured such complete and utter desolation. There wasn't a leaf or a flower or a single blade of grass left. Only dead and dying trees and bare, barren ground. Oh, beautiful Narnia.

But Peter had brought the cure. Perhaps it had cost him his life, but Narnia would be saved. And Edmund was alive and whole. Their sisters were safe. Narnia would one day be green again.

_It is well_, he assured himself as he followed Aslan deeper and deeper still. _It is well_.

The Lion was silent as they went along, swift and unchanging. Peter was weary, unspeakably weary, and the wound across his abdomen ached and burned and seemed to tear wider with every step, yet somehow he kept pace. Somehow he was still on his feet when Aslan finally came to a halt in a perfectly circular ring of trees.

Peter sank to his knees before Him. "Aslan."

The Lion sat on His haunches, golden eyes fixed on Peter's until Peter finally bowed his head, waiting.

"Peter, beloved son," Aslan said at last. "You have done well."

Peter glanced up into the Lion's eyes, eyes that were so filled with love and pride that he could not bear to look into them. He dropped his head again.

"I made so many mistakes, Aslan. And I was weak, so weak. Forgive me." Tears welling into his eyes, Peter pushed up his sleeve and showed the Lion the scars in his forearm. _His and not my own_. "I was afraid I would forget. I was so alone, and I was afraid I would forget I belonged to you."

"Do you not know, dear son, that those words are already written on your heart? Just as you are written on mine?"

"I know." Peter put his arms around the Lion's neck, clinging tightly, trembling. "But I was so afraid, and I felt so alone."

"I was with you, beloved. Always. Even in those times of pain and fear, I was with you. I know you feared for your sisters, and yet did I not keep them safe? You feared for your brother, and yet did I not send him to a place where he would be protected and comforted and loved even in his blindness and then bring him home to be cured? You feared for your kingdom, but did I not send you for just such a time as this to find the cure and bring it back? To keep Narnia safe from those who would despoil her? Even through your times of trial, was I not with you?"

Peter nodded, still with his face buried in the Lion's mane, still with tears streaming down his cheeks. He knew it. Always he had known it. But, oh, how he needed to hear it now. Always. Aslan was with him always.

"Peter," Aslan soothed, nuzzling his hair, and Peter clung all the tighter. "Beloved son, I will never leave you. I will never abandon you. And no one can take you from me."

Peter stayed where he was, soothed by the warmth of the fur and the rumble of His breathing, letting the words sink deeply into his heart, until finally the Lion spoke again.

"Dear son, let me see your scars."

Not meeting His eyes, Peter once again bared his arm.

"All of them, Peter."

The color rising to his face, Peter struggled out of his shirt, torn and stained with sweat and blood and the filth of the streets of Tashbaan. Now Aslan would see his wounds, old and new. Scars from his own foolishness and from the beatings he had taken during his captivity, fresher cuts from his struggle with Prince Shahrivar, and freshest of all, the puckered, black-stitched wound in his belly, all of them were laid bare there in that desolate place and in the Lion's sight.

Finally Peter looked up, but there was no revulsion in Aslan's gentle eyes, no condemnation in His tender voice, only pity and pride.

"You have done well, High King, and suffered much for your kingdom, for your family and for your faithfulness to Me. Now, will you trust Me to lead you were you are to go?"

"To your country, Aslan?"

Again the tears welled into Peter's eyes. Blessed Narnia. Dear Susan. Precious Lucy. Beloved Edmund. He had loved them all so deeply, fought so hard to keep them safe, to keep them his. And could he let them go now?

The wound in his abdomen throbbed and he realized it was bleeding again. He realized, too, that he was tired, so very, very tired. He had seen home. His family and his kingdom were safe. He could let them go. He could let them go and trust in the Lion.

One tear and then another trickled from the corner of his eye, but his gaze was steady.

"I trust you, Aslan. I am ready."

With a smile, the Lion drew a deep breath and then exhaled. His warm, sweet breath touched the scars on Peter's forearm, and they vanished as if they had never been. The warmth covered Peter's body, and wounds old and new disappeared. The sharp pain in his abdomen, the pain that had wracked him for what seemed like an eternity, was gone. His weariness and weakness were gone, too, and still the Lion breathed.

He breathed upon the land, and grass began to spring up. He breathed upon the trees, and they were suddenly covered in leaves. Vines and flowers burst into bloom, and out of the silence there came the chirping and twittering of birds. And still He breathed.

Peter leapt to his feet, feeling that same life pulsing through him as he watched the widening circle of vibrant green spread to the meadows and the hills and beyond, laughing and crying to know that Narnia was saved. Narnia was healed. Narnia was whole.

Then he fell again to his knees before Aslan, soaking up His warmth and life until at last the Lion spoke once again.

"Peter, High King of Narnia, follow Me."

**Author's Note: Only one chapter left now . . . I think. Thanks to LadyA for again giving this a look. I so appreciate it!**

– **WD**


	42. Revelation 21:5

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: REVELATION 21:5

"My King, the Dwarfs have distributed the cure throughout the gardens and into the forest. The Aned Tahwen are flocking to it and dying in droves. By nightfall they should be no more."

Edmund looked up at his Centaur General, swallowing down a painful sob. "Thank you, Oreius. For everything."

The assembly of men and Beasts who had gathered to welcome home the High King and had then watched him, weak and dying, follow the Great Lion into the forest still stood watching, watching their remaining Sovereigns huddled together, mourning for their elder brother, their guide, their rock. They made not a sound.

The Centaur lowered his head, but not before Edmund caught the shadow of deep grief in his eyes. "Forgive me that there was not more I could have done. The High King . . . ?"

Lucy and Susan clung more tightly to their brother, both of them trembling again, and Edmund soothed them as best he could.

"Aslan called him away. But he– he would have said the same, Oreius." Edmund sniffled and then forced a slight smile. "There is no one he trusted or respected more than you. And we will need you more than ever now that– now that he–"

Tears filled Edmund's eyes again and again that tight pain closed around his heart. Now that Peter was gone. Oh, Aslan, gone.

Sobs once more overwhelmed him, setting off the girls again. Then he felt strong arms suddenly around him and his sisters, too, pulling them all into a comforting embrace. For a long while, the Centaur said nothing. He merely held them there.

"It is well, my little ones," he murmured once they were calmer. "It is well. Your brother would wish you to trust in Aslan to know what is best for him and for us all. He has been faithful, and no doubt the Lion will show Himself faithful in return."

Edmund pressed into the embrace and held his sisters closer, resting his cheek against Susan's hair, wishing desperately that he could instead bury his face in the Lion's golden fur and breathe His sweet warmth. But, yes, Peter had been faithful. Aslan was faithful. _It is well. It will be well._

"Look. My King, My Queens, look."

Oreius lifted Lucy's chin and they all looked up to the hills and the forest and the meadows that surrounded Cair Paravel. Green. Living. Bursting with life and sound. Restored. Whole.

"Aslan," Edmund breathed.

And there He stood, just where He had been before, when He had called Peter to Himself.

"Aslan!" Edmund pushed away from Oreius and the girls and started down the beach towards Him, half running. "Aslan!"

But Aslan gave him only a piercing, golden glance and then turned and vanished into the trees.

"Aslan."

_Don't go_, Edmund pled silently, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his grief. _Please, Aslan, I need you. I need you now. Don't go. Don't– _

He froze. Again his heart clenched and his eyes burned with tears. There where the living gold of the Lion had just been was now someone else, someone standing tall and strong and whole and almost as golden, someone–

"Peter!"

"Peter!"

It was Lucy's shriek and then Susan's, and they tore past Edmund towards their older brother, their breathless, sobbing laughter floating back to him on the grass-scented breeze. Behind him he could hear the murmuring crowd of men and Beasts, their mourning turning into astonishment and then joy. Then suddenly, Edmund was running, too, catching his brother and sisters all in one huge embrace.

"Peter."

Edmund pulled back from his brother, looking him up and down. The deathly pallor in Peter's face was gone, replaced by healthy color. His eyes, blue and bright, were no longer shadowed with pain, and his hair was gleaming gold, not sweat-grimed and lank. Even his clothes were fresh and rich, his shirt of the finest linen and his tunic, blood red with a golden lion rampant, elegantly made.

"Aslan," Peter said, answering the questions in Edmund's eyes. "I thought He was taking me to His country. I wanted to go. I wanted so much to see that place and be with Him. But I wanted to stay, too. I wasn't ready to leave Narnia. I wasn't ready to leave . . . "

The words choked down in his throat, he looked at his family. Lucy hugged her arms around his waist, hiding her face against him, and he leaned down to kiss her hair.

"But I was so tired and I hurt so much, I thought it was time. Then He breathed on me and I didn't hurt anymore. I wasn't tired anymore. My wounds and scars were gone. And I realized Narnia was green again, and everything would be all right, that all of you and Narnia would be all right. He told me to follow Him and I was ready to go, I really was, if that's what He wanted, but he led me back here instead. Back home."

"Oh, Peter." Susan clung to him, too, smiling through her tears. "He knows how much we need you."

Edmund twisted the fingers of one hand into Peter's sleeve and then touched his free hand to Peter's cheek, hardly believing he was truly alive.

"Ed?" Peter asked with a puzzled smile when Edmund said nothing.

Edmund hugged him fiercely, and then let him go. "Wait. I'll be back."

Edmund turned and sprinted into the forest, running until, at last, he caught a glimpse of gold through the trees ahead of him. The foliage was lush and dense now, and it was harder to see, but he drove himself forward, watching for any sign, the print of a paw, the rustle of branches, that flash of gold. Finally he saw the Lion Himself, swift and steadfast, always moving.

"Aslan!" Edmund cried out to Him. "Wait! Please, wait!"

Finally the Great Lion came to a halt in a perfectly circular grove of trees and turned, golden eyes intense.

"You have followed hard, beloved son. What would you ask of Me?"

Panting, Edmund fell to his knees in the thick, new grass and looked up into His face. "I only wanted to thank you. Please, Aslan, don't go."

The Lion smiled on him, and Edmund threw his arms around His neck, breathing in His rich, wild scent, soaking in His warmth.

"I will never leave you," Aslan purred, nuzzling Edmund's cheek. "Even when you cannot see Me, I am with you."

Edmund nodded, holding tighter. He had seen it too many times to doubt it now. "Thank you. For Narnia. For Peter. Aslan, I– Aslan–"

He looked again into the Lion's golden eyes, his own filled with tears, and then he clung to Him again. Death had loomed over Peter and over Narnia, and yet Aslan had restored them both with His own breath, with the very essence of life.

"Aslan," Edmund murmured again, and then he shook his head. He had no words, and words could never be enough. Not now. Not now.

The Lion looked on him with love, understanding what Edmund could not say. "Do you not know, beloved son, that I _am_ life? And death cannot hold any who belong to Me? Your brother is mine. Narnia is mine. Their time will one day come, but not now. Not yet. Be at peace, now and always. No one who comes to Me shall ever truly taste of death." He nuzzled Edmund's cheek once more and then nudged him to his feet. "Come now. Your brother and sisters are waiting for you. And your people are ready to celebrate the restoration of their kingdom and to rejoice that their Kings, once dead, have been returned to them alive."

Aslan led him back the way they had come, and soon Edmund could see the beach and the Cair and Peter with Susan and Lucy on either side of him and all three of them surrounded by their loving subjects. After all they had been through, after all they had suffered, a celebration would be most welcome. There was much to celebrate. Perhaps even the Great Lion would celebrate with them.

Edmund turned to ask Him, but when he looked back, Aslan was gone.

And then again, Edmund realized with a smile, He wasn't.

_Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live._

_John 11:25_

**Author's Note: Even though it's rather late, I wanted to post this chapter today, Easter Sunday. Death could not hold Him.**

**Many thanks to LadyAlambielKnightOfNarnia for brainstorming and proofing and just general all around woot-ness. I would not have been able to get this done without her help.**

**So tell me, Gentle Reader, should I leave it here or would you like an epilogue?**

– **WD**


	43. Joel 2:25

**Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

EPILOGUE: JOEL 2:25

Lady Cemil sat in the cool of her garden, under the shade of the trees. It had been almost a year, a full year, but she could not help thinking of when she had last seen the boy she had come to love as her own. Edrret had promised then to return to her one day, but how could he? Here in Tashbaan, in Calormen, he was a runaway slave. He and his brother both would be captured and punished and returned to their bonds if they ever came back.

Their great Lion had rescued them, she was sure of it. He had freed them and restored them and, even now, watched over them. Just as he did the Kings of Narnia.

How He had done it, she was not certain, but somehow he had brought those Kings, the High King Peter and King Edmund the Just, back from the dead. Though they had been torn and eaten by wild beasts, He had restored them and their kingdom. It was a great wonder.

She smiled faintly, knowing that, somehow, His restoration had not stopped there. She knew–

"Way! Way for the white barbarian Kings! Way! Way! Way!"

Lady Cemil lifted her head, looking through the bars of the garden gate into the street. She knew the Kings of Narnia were here in the city to visit the Tisroc (may he live forever), and now she could see their entourage. Men and Beasts and creatures she had never before seen, creatures with the bodies of men and the legs of goats, great lions with eagles' wings, and one especially fierce creature that was half horse and half man. There were so many in the party of Narnians, she could not see the Kings themselves, and she was surprised when they all came to a halt there in front of her own house. And then Ayla hurried, wide eyed, into the garden.

"O My Mistress," she panted, kneeling. "There is a . . . messenger who requests an audience with you."

She could not imagine who of the Kings' party would wish to see her, but she was curious. "Let him come in."

"Yes, My Mistress."

Ayla scrambled to her feet and disappeared. A moment later, the messenger came into the garden.

"Most noble Lady Cemil, I bring you greetings from the Kings of Narnia, High King Peter the Magnificent and King Edmund the Just."

It was the creature who was half man and half horse, stern and formidable and very, very large.

Pulse pounding, Lady Cemil caught her breath, but she managed a serene nod. "I thank you, Sir . . . ?"

The Centaur bowed his dark head. "General Oreius, gracious lady. I am come to ask if you would grant a brief audience to my Kings. They greatly desire to speak to you."

"To me?" She put one hand over her racing heart. "Surely you mean they wish to speak to the Tarkaan, my noble son."

"No, Lady Cemil, if you will pardon me, it is you they wish to see. May I bring them to you?"

She bowed her head, bewildered and a bit afraid. Why would the Kings of Narnia wish to speak to her?

"I would be most honored."

The Centaur bowed in return and hurried through the garden gate. A moment later, he was back, several Narnians with him.

"Lady Cemil," General Oreius said, "here are my Kings."

She made a deep curtsy and then strong, gentle hands were lifting her to her feet. She looked up, and her eyes immediately filled with tears.

"Edrret! Master Perren!" Suddenly afraid, she pulled away from them and took a step back. "You are– You are King Edmund and High King Peter."

The older boy, looking every bit the golden and magnificent High King she had been told of, merely smiled at her, blue eyes warm. But his brother, smiling too, took her into his arms, hugging her tightly, kissing her forehead.

"I told you I would be back."

She put one hand to his cheek. "Edrret." Her face grew hot, and she immediately pulled away from him, head bowed. "Forgive me. King Edmund."

"No," he said, not letting her go. "Just Edmund. Please."

She looked up at him and saw there were tears in his eyes, too. With a low cry that was part laugh and part sob, she hugged him close to her, pressing kisses to his hair and to his face.

"How can it be, child? How can it be that you and your brother are the Kings of Narnia, and how is it that you were slaves here in Tashbaan?"

"We were betrayed by our enemies, Noble Lady," the High King said. "But what they meant for evil, Aslan meant for good. If we hadn't come here, if we had stayed at Cair Paravel, then we would not have been able to save our kingdom and our people. We would never have known there was a cure for the plague that was unleashed against us until after we had already been forced to surrender."

His brother smiled. "And now we have had everything that was lost restored to us."

He touched the pendant that hung around his neck, small and golden, a Lion's head on one side and some sort of runes carved into the other, and Lady Cemil realized his brother wore one just like it. It must be something sacred to them both, something from Aslan Himself.

She smiled. "And you made it safely to your home and family. Then He has heard my prayers for you." She turned to the High King. "For both of you."

"He sent us to you, Lady," he replied. "To let you know that, truly, He has heard you."

He nodded at his brother, and the younger boy reached into the pouch that hung at his belt and took out another pendant, one that was much like the ones they both wore, though this one looked freshly minted.

"Would you like to know what it says?" he asked.

She nodded, feeling almost shy around these two who were mere boys and yet Aslan's Kings.

The younger King traced his fingers over the runes. "It says, 'His and not my own.'" He looked up at her, dark eyes gleaming. "Would you care to have this one?"

"You– you brought this for me, Edr– King Edmund?"

"If you are pleased to have it, Lady, as a remembrance."

She once more touched his cheek._ Dearest Edrret_.

"Yes, a remembrance." She ducked her head and he fastened the pendant around her neck, and then she smiled. "A remembrance of you and of the Lion you told me of and all He has done for me."

The younger boy turned his head a little to one side, a sweet touch of a smile on his lips. "You look happy, Lady. You sound much happier than I ever remember from before."

"I have met the Lion." She traced her fingers over her new pendant, smiling through sudden tears. "I told Him all I had done, and He said He knew it already and wanted me still."

He nodded, and it was obvious he knew exactly what her meeting with Aslan had been like.

"And then–" She caught a steadying breath. "As you said, He restored what I thought never to have. My son, the mighty Tarkaan, married again some months ago. The girl, Sadei, is one he has known since they both were children, one who has long loved him. Once his faithless Tarkheena was gone, it was if he could see clearly again, and he realized Sadei was everything his first wife was not and well worth his love." All her joy bubbled up into a laugh. "They will have a child come winter, and I will again have a little one to dote upon." She looked fondly on the younger King. "One who, I hope, will not be so eager to leave me."

He hugged her once more. "I owe you more than I can ever repay, Lady. And I did not truly want to leave you."

"I know. And I realize now why you could not stay. I only wish you could have come back sooner. I have wondered for a very long time what had become of you." She smiled at the High King. "Of you both."

The older boy gave her a wry smile. "Forgive us taking so long, Lady Cemil, but we had to make certain it was safe for us to return. Your Tisroc assures us now that he was unaware of the plot his son, the late Prince Shahrivar, had hatched against us and that he wishes nothing but amity between Calormen and Narnia."

That so-familiar smirk was on his brother's face. "And there were those in our own court who made it quite clear that our return to Tashbaan without that assurance and without a full and very well-armed escort would not be allowed."

The formidable Centaur General made a slight bow and, apart from a certain archness in his expression, said nothing.

"Forgive us, Noble Lady," the High King said after a moment. "But we are due at the palace of your Tisroc and must not keep him waiting."

The younger King smiled. "Our friend Darreth, Duke Darreth now, will be accompanying us. He is representing Terebinthia, the Seven Isles and the Lone Islands in their alliance with Narnia. It seems we are not the only ones Aslan has restored."

Lady Cemil nodded. "I am content just knowing that you are safe and well where you are and that you are under the protection of the Lion Himself. It is well, my young one. It is well."

The High King took her hand and touched it with a courtly kiss. "Know, Gracious Lady, that you are always welcome at Cair Paravel and anywhere we hold power. We can never repay your kindnesses to us both."

His brother, and she could still hardly believe the boy she had once bought to serve as her page was truly King Edmund the Just of Narnia, hugged her one last time.

"When we have finished with the Tisroc, if you like, Lady, perhaps we could come back and spend a little more time with you before we return to Narnia."

She glanced at the Centaur, still rather taken aback, and then back at the younger King. "If you are able, and if your General does not object, that would please me very much. And then you can both tell me more about the Lion and all He has done."

**Author's Note: And that, Gentle Reader, is the end of the tale. Thanks to LadyAlambielKnightOfNarnia for help in brainstorming. Thanks to all of you for sticking with this long and drawn out mess of a story. I'm rather sad to see it's over, but maybe now I can get caught up on my real work. **

**I would be more than gratified to know what you think.**

– **WD**


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